


Cadavre Exquis

by Lyrae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (He gets better), (always), (kinda), Actor Sherlock Holmes, Alternate Universe - Dorian Gray Fusion, Choking, Dark, Dark Sherlock Holmes, Immortal Jim Moriarty, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insane Sherlock Holmes, Jim Has Issues, Love/Hate, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Murder, Not Really Character Death, POV Sherlock Holmes, Painter Sherlock Holmes, Poisoning, Portraits, Possessive Behavior, References to Shakespeare, Reichenbach Falls, Reincarnation, Roughness, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is Married to His Work, Sherlock is a Mess, Soul Bond, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, They really do love each other though, Unhealthy Relationships, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Violent Thoughts, crazy characters, kinda fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28638114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae/pseuds/Lyrae
Summary: How can you be alive?In the ealy 1800'  a young, brilliant painter named Sherlock Holmes meets his muse, James Moriarty.Decades later, a genius actor sees his Prince charming in the audience.1891, a consulting detective has a meeting with the Napoleon of crime.2014, Sherlock Holmes is in a plane, heading for his death.There's nothing new under the sun
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 26
Kudos: 33





	1. The artist

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a Dorian Gray au-  
> Hmm  
> Well  
> Kinda? 
> 
> Be mindful of the tags btw, there's nothing too graphic but Sherlock has some weird thoughts in this chapter so if that bothers you, you might want to skip that chapter entirely.

Sherlock Holmes is a painter, he's young, bright and everyone says he's a genius.

He is. 

Once he sees something, someone, even if he merely catches a glimpse, he can paint it in so much detail that people think he just added colours to a photograph. When painting a person, his eyes capture the likeness, the little things that make them _them,_ and his hands flawlessly transpose what he perceives on the canvas, a minute frown here, a faded scar there, he adds everything together with the brushes, stroke of colour, stroke of brilliance, and it's done… 

That's what ordinary people see at least, but there's more _\- of course there's more,_ Sherlock doesn't just reproduce their physical characteristics, that would be far too easy, far too uninteresting, no _no,_ he paints their very mind on the canvas, their pride, their fears, he dissects them and etches their insides on the white expanse. 

_Boring_. 

Sherlock finds no joy in art, in _his_ at least, he just continues because people prefer being painted in colourful colours to having a black and white photo taken, and so it pays well. He's good but that doesn't mean he likes it. 

It's too easy, too simple, there's isn't a single human being he can't understand with a glance, not a single man he can't recreate with his paint, he has no muse, no drive, he draws like machines count and hates every second of it. 

Easy easy _easy._

Maybe he should just jump off a bridge, he knows the splash would look pretty. 

He's actually starting to seriously consider it when he meets _him_. Jim. 

His name is James Moriarty, he's a nobody, a nothing, and no one would say he's beautiful. He is. 

He has too big eyes and a too sharp smile, his skin is slightly too pale, slightly too thin, he's too small and too poor. 

He blends into the void most of the time then he effortlessly slips out the shadow like his mind isn't the brightest thing Sherlock had ever seen and it's breathtaking. Truly, it shouldn't come as a surprise that it takes no time for him to be thoroughly obsessed. 

He stalks the young man wherever he goes, he doesn't hide- _Sherlock can hide of course, but it's hard to slip in the crowd with his striking looks,_ but he makes sure to be invited to the same parties, to shop in the same places. 

Being the centre of attention wherever he goes means that he can't just stroll to Jim and introduce himself, but the few glimpses he catches are worth it, his obsession whispering behind a pillar, the anomaly greeting the host with a sly grin, the man-shaped _something_ quietly casting a dark gaze around the ballroom. 

James Moriarty is far too smart to be there, far too much. 

When Sherlock is back to his flat, he drops the smile, drops the mask, everything, and he draws. He draws for hours, for days, for _ever,_ until his fingers are blackened by the charcoal, reddened by the blisters, he pours all of his observations onto the paper and tears the pages asunder when the dark eyes turn out dull, the smirk lifeless. 

It's not him, it's not _Jim._

Sherlock doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, barely blinks and forgets to drink, he stares at the destroyed sketchbooks, at the broken brushes, and he screams. No matter how many times he sees him, how much he stares at him, he can never quite replicate that man, simply because he can't replicate his _mind._

Sherlock wants to tie him down and open his skull up to dissect that pretty brain of his and eat it raw, he wants to skin him and see the red tissues beneath the paper white skin, he wants to plunge his hands into Jim's chest and check if the dead thing he calls a heart really beats. 

Instead, he brushes his hair, puts on his best coat and goes out to buy more supplies. 

It's the middle of the night, he realises later, he's hardly going to find an open shop. It doesn't matter, because Sherlock sees him then. At first, he's not sure whether it's really him or not- _he sees him everywhere after all, the crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment,_ but Jim is here, in that dark alley, and a taller man is pressing him up against a wall by his neck, crushing his windpipe. 

His first thought is that Moriarty is gorgeous like that, with tousled hair and blood on his face, life slowly seeping out of his eyes as he uselessly struggles. He wants to paint him that way, ashy skin and features twisted in a pained grimace, wants to stop time and just preserves that image forever. 

His second thought, more practical, is that Jim will die if the situation doesn't change, which means that he will never get to paint his brilliance and that the man's eyes will be just as lifeless as they had been on his failed attempts, just as dull as they had looked on paper. He can hardly have that, can he? 

Sherlock is an egoistic man, he never believed the opposite, and so he knows perfectly well that him socking the taller man on the jaw has nothing to do with some ludicrous sense of justice and everything with his obsession. Jim knows too. 

Moriarty falls on the floor in a heap, coughing and gasping, wheezing to catch his breath. His right hand presses against his sore neck while the left fumbles in his pockets and takes out a small knife, his eyes burn and he looks dangerous. 

For the first time, Sherlock wishes he actually was a fighter, things would have been easier if he had managed to knock Jim's attacker out with one hit… Maybe he'll learn one day. 

"Run." Moriarty grins, coiling like a serpent before bolting out of the street, not looking back to see if he's being followed. He's surprisingly fast on his feet for a man who had been on the brink of passing out, Sherlock has an advantage with his long legs but he barely manages to catch up. 

Whoever he punched seems too dizzy to continue the chase anyway, and after a few minutes, they're alone near Regent Park, gasping against a wall. There's a moment of quiet, Sherlock gazing hungrily at the other, mapping his features, recording his expression, then he catches a pair of dark eyes staring at him curiously and he sighs. 

"Sherlock Holmes. " he holds out his hand. 

Jim smiles and it almost reaches his eyes. _Almost_. 

"I know. " he doesn't offer his name, he knows he doesn't need to. 

"Not going to thank me for saving your life?" 

Sherlock leans against the building behind him, confident, relaxed. Even though he hardly bothers, he's a good actor when he wants. Maybe in another life, another time, he might have chosen the stage instead of the brush. 

His words are answered with a tilted head and a smirk, the blade of Jim's knife catching the light from the nearest lamppost. He doesn't look convinced but Sherlock would have been disappointed if he was. When no additional information is provided, his little anomaly arches an eyebrow before overtly stretching, the movement revealing the finger-shaped bruises circling his throat. 

He looks beautiful this way, debauched, Sherlock wishes he was the one who put those marks on his neck, and the other obviously knows he does. 

"Not unless you're planning to tell me why you're stalking me darling." Jim smiles in a mockery of pleasantness, idly playing with the knife. The threat is clear, barely veiled, but there's a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. 

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The amiable expression falls away, replaced by nothing at all, and Sherlock finds himself looking directly into the void. 

"Alright, you can keep your secrets for now if you want honey, but let's stop with the pleasantries." Jim walks forwards slowly, deliberately, until their faces are a few inches apart, until Sherlock forgets how to breathe "What do you want?"

Youyou _you_ , his mind screams. 

He smiles, opens his mouth-

"You!" a voice screams, startling them both. 

Oh, _him._ Sherlock almost forgot the other man, the reason he was talking to Jim in the first place. They weren't careful enough it seems, or far enough maybe, and their pursuer somehow managed to find them while they were resting. 

Sherlock frowns, Jim smiles, they glance at each other, one second, two, and then both run 

in a different direction. 

They lose sight of each other and slip into the night. 

A few days later, Carl Powers, the man who strangled Moriarty and followed them, drowns- _an unfortunate accident of course, the poor man went for a swim in the Thames and just never left the river,_ but even after that, the anomaly doesn't show his face again. No traces of him at the usual gatherings, no whispers of his name at the parties, for all intents and purposes, he is gone. 

_Gone._

Sherlock wishes he was dead instead, at least he would be able to bury his obsession with the man then… 

Or maybe he would exhume the body and take it back to Baker Street until the scent of the decaying corpse brought Scotland Yard to his doorstep, until they came and saw him in his bed, curled around the cadaver with maggots in his hair and rotting flesh stuck beneath his nails. 

He loses himself in the fantasy, in the mess he made of 221b, and lies on the ground all day in the middle of torn pages covered in paint and half-drawn faces- _his_ face, then one day someone arrives, enters without knocking, and it's him. 

_Of course it's him._

"Oh poor dear, look at yourself…" Jim croons, sitting at his side. He's still for an instant, immobile, and then he's gently passing his hands through Sherlock's tangled curls. His hair got longer he knows, wilder, and it's adorned with globs of dried paint, drops of colours like dead flowers in the dark strands. "My own little Ophelia, I wouldn't have left for so long if I had known you would lose that pretty brain of yours."

"Liar." Sherlock croaks, forcing the words out of his hoarse throat. He doesn't deny he's insane- _he knows he probably is anyway,_ and Jim laughs, high and amused. 

There's no knife in his hand this time, the bruises around his throat faded a long time ago and he's wearing some stylish tailcoat that looks far too expensive for him to own. 

_He miscalculated_ , Sherlock realises, _he missed a lot of things about his little obsession._

"Alright, you got me."

A beat, a silence and then Sherlock speaks. 

"You killed Powers." 

Jim looks down, meets his eyes and then appears to see right through his brain. He seems bored when he stands back up, rocking back and forth the ball of his feet like he's waiting for him to do something interesting. There's no answer to his accusation, no acknowledgement, they both he's right after all, just like Jim had known his name before he introduced himself. 

"Tell me Sherlock Holmes, what do you want?"

_'What do you desire?' The devil asks with a thin smile, dark eyes barely peeking beneath long lashes. His pink tongue darts over his lips before disappearing back in his sinful mouth and Sherlock's mind sings 'youyouyou'._

"I want to paint your portrait." he says instead. 

The other barely seems surprised, he looks around the wrecked room, stretches his neck to the side, and nods. Everyone knows Sherlock Holmes lives for his craft after all. 

"Alright. "

He has nothing to lose, nothing to win either but sometimes games don't need to have stakes. 

They go out together the next day to buy everything Sherlock would need- _everything he destroyed in his anguish_ . For the occasion he shaved his grubby beard, cut his hair and took his most presentable outfit but he still feels a bit inadequate next to Jim, the man wearing a horribly expensive black coat with a top hat and a walking cane, looking like the picture-perfect Lord. He isn't though, Sherlock isn't very interested in politics but he's interested in _him_ and he knows that no Moriarty owns anything important in England. 

When they're done with their purchases, they go back to Baker Street, Jim sits and Sherlock paints. 

They argue for a bit, he wants to make a full-length portrait, his subject complains and protests, insisting on a bust view at most, which would take less time. It uses up a few hours but they eventually reach a compromise and Sherlock starts working on a Kit-cat portrait while Jim still seems unhappy but finally accepts, lounging in his assigned seat. 

He sketches the body, the elegant hands, the slight smirk… And gets stuck on the eyes. 

It's when the night comes with absolutely no progress that he realises things won't be as easy as he had hoped. Oh yes, now he has the man himself sitting in his atelier, shooting bored glances around the flat, but it still doesn't change the fact that he can't get inside his head, can't replicate that little something that turns his face from average to sublime. Sherlock hardly needs him posing to paint him in all his details, he could have done that after seeing him for the first time- _he did,_ no no, what he needs is that _mind,_ that shining of beacon of brilliance casting strange lights into his gaze, that wondrous machine that just never seems to stop. 

He needs to get under his skin, so one day he tries, Sherlock steps away from his canvas, steps forwards knowing perfectly well the other is observing his movements, and then bends down, kissing Jim, softly, gently. 

It's disappointing, mostly because the other doesn't answer the kiss but also because he wants to tear his throat out with his teeth and watch him bleed out, to open his ribcage and bury himself in his chest, not _this._

_Boring,_ they both think. 

They don't stop. 

Jim indulges him sometimes, answers the touch, the movements, until they tumble into his bed and make a mess of his sheets and lie silent among the pillows. 

Months pass like that, the elusive man comes and goes as he wishes, sometimes disappearing for a few days, sometimes staying a whole week at his flat, and the portrait slowly progresses, step by step, the colours filling the white canvas. The eyes are the only thing still missing. 

Jim is going to leave soon, Sherlock realises as they walk through Regent Park. He doesn't know how long he will stay anymore but he can easily see that the other man is getting annoyed by the posing and the lack of progress, restless in the golden cage that is London. 

Still, they walk side by side. 

"They say that you're crazy, you know? Brilliant, yes, but absolutely out of your mind." Jim comments at some point, and Sherlock doesn't doubt his words. 

He hasn't taken any commission in months after all, or gotten outside much for that matter, so it's no surprise that rumours started spreading. Still, it's not like he ever cared about his reputation. 

"What do you think? " he asks, turning towards the other, honestly curious about the answer. 

Jim doesn't look at him, he doesn't seem to be looking at anything, not really, his eyes are fixed in front of him, unseeing. 

"You're me. "

It's barely more than a whisper, it's _enough._

They go back to Baker Street, Jim sits and Sherlock paints, he paints like he has never painted before, he paints like he will never paint again, he paints with passion for the first and last time in his life. At the end of the day, one would say that he hasn't done much, but there's a pair of black, scorching eyes on the canvas now, filled with manic energy and staring at the onlookers with all the defiance in the world. 

When Jim sees them, he laughs, laughs, _laughs,_ chokes on the glee until Sherlock lunges at him and tackles him on the rug, holding his wrists against the floor, but even then, even now, the anomaly just smirks up at him, and whispers _'do it do it do it'._

He isn't sure what Jim wants him to do, he doesn't care, he snarls and the next instant their lips are colliding, pressed in a bruising kiss. There's nothing sweet about it, nothing nice, it's vicious and rough and Sherlock has blood in his mouth, blood on his teeth. He's drowning in the coppery taste and he still needs _more._

His fingers tear Jim's shirt away, rip his tie to shreds, revealing the flawless neck, the unblemished chest. The rest of his clothes suffer the same fate and soon his obsession is sprawled naked on the rug, panting slightly, eyes so dark they swallow the light, swallow what was left of his sanity. Sherlock acts on instinct, on impulse, his hands close around the pale throat, tighten their grip, and he observes Jim's expression, the amusement, the hunger. The man starts struggling against his fingers then, trashing on the floor, but he merely watches with cold eyes, paints the scene in his mind. He waits, waits, _waits,_ then lets go and forcefully presses their lips together again, swallowing Jim's gasps, preventing the other from drawing breath. 

It's exciting, exhilarating, Sherlock groans in a mix of pleasure and pain when he feels sharp teeth sink into his lower lips. The smaller man uses his surprise to extricate himself from his grip and throws his head back. 

Jim grins, licks the blood off his teeth, and then pounces on him, eyes dark and lethal. Sherlock tries to act like he's not imagining how the other would scream if he gouged out his eyeballs but he knows Jim is perfectly aware of what's going on inside his mind. 

"Alright darling, you had your fun, now let me show you how it's done. " he purrs

And with those words, Sherlock's entire world fades into _Jim._

The next morning, he's pretty sure he's dead, he's covered in scratches and bruises, dry blood painting worlds on his body, and he has never felt so good in his life. Jim is gone, he realises with a tinge of disappointment, the heap of torn clothes is gone too, as if it was never there in the first place. 

Sherlock runs a bath, puts on a low dress shirt that showcases the bites at the base of his throat, a pair of high trousers, and _waits._ He sits in his favourite chair, doesn't eat, doesn't drink, eyes fixed on the door. 

That night, Jim comes back all prim and proper, high collar and long sleeves, he grins, sits on the painter's lap, and grinds down, his eyes glinting when the other gasps. The next moment, he's taking off his coat, opening his collar, and placing Sherlock's hands around his throat where his fingertips already left deep purple marks. 

"Do it like you mean it this time. "

Sherlock obliges. 

Days pass, he adds the finishing touches, the anomaly doesn't leave his flat, the blood doesn't wash off the sheets anymore and eventually, Sherlock pours his soul into the painting in an effort to trap Jim's alongside his.

It's beautiful in the end- of course it is, it's _him,_ it's danger and death turned into a man, it's all of his darkest desires bound on the canvas, it's something that should have never been unleashed on this world and Sherlock loves it. 

Jim looks at it, looks at the portrait and finds himself staring back, then he turns to Sherlock and breathes out. 

"I'm leaving Sherlock."

He knows he would, he knows he will, still, that doesn't stop him from asking. 

"Why? "

Sherlock is certain that if Jim could look sad, he would. 

"Because if I don't leave London now, I'll grow old here and I'll never leave. "

The idea of Jim ever growing old catches him off guard. He glances at the painting, perfect, flawless, then looks back at the man, and the idea of his obsession ageing is so abhorrent, so abominable, that Sherlock thinks he might get sick if he contemplates it for too long. 

The portrait mocks him with its timeless youth and its vibrant colour, ridicules him with its eternity, he hates it as much as he adored it a few seconds ago. 

If it were Jim who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that… Sherlock would give his soul for that.

He does. 

"I'll come back, one day." Jim says, eyes dark and piercing. He's almost sure he means it. 

"You can't ask me to wait for you like that."

"I know." And he knows that Sherlock will anyway. 

The painter looks at him, then looks at the painting. He wrote _Sherlock Holmes_ at the bottom, and he's not sure whether it's a signature or a title. 

"The portrait isn't dry yet. " he says softly, and his obsession smiles. 

"Keep it, you're the one who wanted it anyway." 

It's a lie, they both know it is, Sherlock had never really wanted the portrait itself, he wanted _Jim_ as much as Jim wanted him. 

"Farewell my dear." and the smaller man grabs his collar, brings him forwards and presses their lips together with all the passion in the world. He bites down, enough to taste blood, flashes him a bloody grin and strolls away. 

Sherlock waits after that. 

He paints Jim again and again, putting his face on pieces of canvas that he hangs around his flat, he depicts the man as a pirate, a Roman Emperor, a martyr, he portrays him naked, covered in gold jewellery and variegated bruises like arabesques on his skin. The light splinters in his eyes like Sherlock's sanity shatters against the flow of time.

He always goes back to the first portrait though, to the purest representation of his muse, and Sherlock kisses the painting with the burning devotion of an idolater worshipping the effigy of his god. 

Weeks pass, months, years. 

He follows Jim's trail like he used to stalk him through London, he sees his touch in newspapers' articles depicting glorious heists in France, his mind in the death of a Spanish noble, hears his genius in the rumours. He's brilliant, has always been, he's orchestrating Europe's crime scene from the shadows and Sherlock knows his muse wouldn't have settled for less. 

_The Napoleon of crime,_ he calls him in his dreams, and Jim laughs before slitting his throat. The painting hanging above the chimney feels like a mirror, so much that he's not even surprised when he sees the first wrinkles appear, when the white hairs in the dark strands begin to echo the ones he finds in his own curls. The portrait ages alongside Sherlock, his eyes become colder if not duller, sunken, his smirk falls off his face at some point and eventually he just looks tired, weary. 

It's been almost twenty years since he hasn't seen the criminal in person when someone enters 221b without knocking, familiar footsteps echoing in the staircase. 

Jim steps inside and finds himself inside a mirror house with Sherlock sprawled in the centre. The painter doesn't look good, he knows, his hair is long, matted, his tattered clothes revealing his jutting bones and the bloody gashes he gave himself when the boredom got too much to bear. He looks like a demon wretched out of hell and Jim is the devil, perfect, flawless, young, so _young_

The portrait mocks them from his place above the chimney, neither men speak but Sherlock glances at it and Jim follows his gaze, his face distorting in horror and confusion before realization sets in. 

"It's _your_ fault. " he howls, gesturing at his flawless face, at the drained man in the painting. _Your fault your fault your fault_ "What have you done?!"

_What has he done?_ Sherlock used to wonder that too, when the portrait just started ageing. He smiles, looks at Jim. He knows now. 

_He exchanged his soul for Jim's eternal youth. It's worth it._

His muse is beyond angry now, beyond mad, his eyes are enormous and far too black for things of this Earth. They're the most beautiful things Sherlock has ever seen. 

"It really is your fault, isn't it Sherlock? " he asks again, and this time it's low, lethal, calm. Quiet is more terrifying than the earlier hurricane, so much more. 

The portrait's eyes fill with agony and sorrow, they both know that it's not a question, and Jim screams, roars, _fix it Sherlock, fix it fix it fix it,_ he pounces on him, grabs his shirt and shakes him with desperate intensity. 

"I can't Jim, I can't, don't you see?! There's nothing to fix!" 

Jim's eyes are wide, agonized for an instant, and then they're sharp, determined, and there's a knife embedded in Sherlock's chest. 

"Whatever you did won't stick with your death." he says as if he's convinced, but Sherlock can see it in his gaze, the fear hidden beneath the manic certainty "I'm sorry my own, but it's for the best."

Jim smiles, a small, withered little thing, and there's blood on the portrait's hands and there's blood in his throat and-

_I don't want to die,_ he thinks, _I don't want to live,_ he sees reflected in Jim's eyes. 

Sherlock laughs, laughs, _laughs,_ chokes on the blood until the stroke of a brush turns his world black. 


	2. The actor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is an actor, he's tall, sharp and everyone says he's a genius.
> 
> He is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the fic with a slightly saner Sherlock and a probably-not-fine Moriarty

Sherlock Holmes is an actor, he's tall, sharp and everyone says he's a genius.

He is. 

He breezes through the characters, portrays the emotions to the point of perfection, he smiles and he cries and screams until the audience explodes in applause. Afterwards, he steps off the scene, he bows, he grins, they say he must be so sensitive to play so well, so emphatic, and he thanks them for their kind words, feeling nothing. It's all an act, his shyness when he accepts the flowers, his nerves when he steps on the stage, it's all a lie and they blindly eat it up. 

Easy easy _easy._

Maybe he should set himself on fire at the end of the fifth act, that would be a tragedy, that would be _real._

He's actually starting to seriously consider it when he sees that man in the audience, sees _him._

Sherlock is playing Hamlet tonight, he's playing _mad_ and it's fun to see how even his fellow actors watch him with awe. He wishes he could do the same thing when he steps off the stage, grab a mask of insanity and force it on his face, scream and shout and make them all go away. Maybe people would stop bothering him then, and even his brother would finally leave him alone. 

"The rest is silence." he gasps, dying in Horatio's arms, and for an instant, he feels it. He's dying and someone is cradling him close and the fading Sherlock is laughing- _not him, not now, he's Hamlet and Hamlet is dead already,_ he's laughing and he hears a man whispering sweet things about how he's the most beautiful thing on Earth. 

_It's a lie,_ he decides, _because the dark eyes watching his life slip away are the loveliest things he has ever seen._

Then thunderous applause echoes in the theatre and the fantasy slips away. Sherlock stands back up, opens his arms, throws his head back. He wants to say he feels glorious right now, bathing in their awe, drowning in their amazement, but he's just bored. His eyes open and fly over the audience, he bows, once, twice, looks again, and freezes. 

In the middle of rows in the stalls, in the centre of the seats the theatre usually sells at a higher price since they offer the best view, is a man standing perfectly still, expressionless, emotionless. He doesn't look adoring or worshipping as everyone else does, he merely seems a bit amused and when their eyes meet across the distance, the man smirks, claps almost mockingly, and leaves his seat. 

The next night he's there, the night after that as well, he comes to all of Sherlock's performances, always in the same seat, always with the same reaction, always smirking slightly before leaving. The fact that he watches more than one of his representations isn't that strange in itself, people always come back to see him on stage, it's a fact, his voice enthrals, his smile mesmerizes, no, what _is_ bizarre is his obvious amusement when he catches Sherlock's gaze. 

_There is something else there, but he's too far to tell what it is._

For the first time in his life, he finds himself looking forward to his performances, he plays just as well as before if not better, but now, when his thoughts go from his character to the way he wants to throttle the other actors, he just glances at the man and grins internally. Mystery man's eyes are dark and he _knows_ , Sherlock knows that he does. 

He plays Romeo tonight, he finds it horribly boring and he wants to rip Juliet apart when she decides to shove her tongue into his mouth during their kiss. Somehow, he resists the urge through the entire play, people weep as the poison kills him- _thus with a kiss I die,_ he wants to smile but he doesn't, and he waits for the end to look up at Mystery man. 

_He left early tonight_ , it's hardly the first time but Sherlock is still disappointed. 

He goes back to his dressing room, glances at the flower arrangements littering the ground and is ready to call in someone to take them away when one bouquet catches his eyes. 

_Love in a mist, devil-in-the-bush… Nigella damascena, you puzzle me._

It's the first time someone left him some common garden flowering plants as a gift, the blue flowers mixed with their white counterparts. Usually, his fans try to impress him with exotic plants and expensive jewellery, but this? 

"Hey, you." Sherlock leaves his room and grabs the boy waiting next to his door by the shoulder, bringing him inside. He's supposed to keep an eye on who comes and accept the gifts for Sherlock, so maybe- "Did you see who brought those flowers?"

The child is fidgeting, not knowing how to act as the actor usually doesn't even acknowledge his existence. Still, he answers. 

"He didn't give his name sir, but he looked like a rich fellow. "

Sherlock scowls. 

"I don't care about his monetary situation idiot! Tell me, was he pale with dark hair and dark eyes? " a nod "Clean shaven?" another "Wearing a red overcoat? " a beam. 

"Yes, exactly! "

"Did he give you anything else then? A note maybe? " Sherlock asks with hungry eyes, watching as the boy hesitates, squirms "So? " he repeats when he receives no answer. 

After a second, he lowers his eyes and slowly takes a flower out of his pocket, a rhododendron bloom, and places it into Sherlock's open palm. 

"I'm sorry sir, it was pretty and you usually never care about the flowers. "

Sherlock grins widely, ignoring the apologetic child, and practically skips out of the theatre, holding the gifts. 

_Rhododendron, beware, I am dangerous,_ and he dances in the streets until he's back in Baker Street. 

The next night, he's a bit dejected when he doesn't see any strange bouquet in his dressing room, it was Hamlet again this time and he thought his death was quite magnificent, but the disappointment turns to annoyance when someone knocks at his door. 

"What?" he bites out, not even looking as whoever it was enters. It's probably the theatre's owner anyway, he's the only one who would have the gall to ignore his 'no visitors' instructions and also the only person stupid enough to bother him right now… Or his brother maybe, but he doesn't care either way. Sherlock doesn't bother stopping and continues to wipe the sweat off his face, expecting the grating voice of the old man, and so he's quite startled when an unfamiliar- _so so familiar-_ lilt echoes near his ear. 

"I heard you liked the flowers darling, so I figured I would wait until the end of the play to bring them myself this time." the stranger purrs "You were quite sublime when you greeted that ambassador's daughter and acted like she wasn't the dullest thing in the world you know?"

Sherlock whirls around, and it's a dark-haired man, it's _him._ It's unfair how pretty the man is, with his pale skin, pink lips and abyssal eyes, he looks like a painting of still life, timeless, inhuman, his hair a stroke of black brush. 

He forgets to breathe for a moment, he feels like he's choking, drowning- _there's blood in his throat and he laughs-_ and then his heart starts again and he asks wryly:

"Who said that was an act? "

His question is answered with an arched eyebrow, a smirk. 

"You did of course, you're good, the best, but _I can read you._ " 

Sherlock shivers and he knows that somehow, _somehow,_ the other isn't lying. 

"You said something about flowers? " he asks, smiling sweetly like he doesn't want to run to and from the man at the same time. The next second, a bouquet is produced in front of him, and he can't help but stare. _Tuberose-_ "Dangerous pleasure. " mystery man nods pleased with his knowledge, and _Viscaria_ "Will you dance with me? "

The other stretches his neck, the motion slow and deliberate, before looking right at him, right _through_ him. 

"Well, how can I refuse when you ask so nicely? " he smirks, holds out his hand and waits until Sherlock gives him his, he brings it to his lips, leaving a butterfly kiss on his skin. 

Contrary to what he implies though, there is no dance that night, nor the ones that follow, the man just lets go of Sherlock's hand, stares at him with dark, _dark_ eyes, and walks away. 

Mystery man didn't give his name so Sherlock calls him Prince charming in his mind and dreams of his lips pulled in a snarl, of his pearly white teeth tearing out his throat and of his mouth red with blood, he fantasizes about his hands around his neck, digging inside his chest, crushing his heart. 

Maybe that's what love is, he thinks. 

Prince charming is a ghost, a phantom, and no one would say he's even remotely remarkable. He is. 

Even his brother notices the longing looks Sherlock gives his door when he visits his dressing room but he knows better than to probes too much. He asks, of course, but Sherlock scoffs and tells him to leave. 

The next week, mystery man comes back, with a grin and no explanation. He doesn't bring flowers this time but his presence is more than enough, and slowly, surely, his visits become a routine. 

Prince charming comes to his dressing room like a murderer goes back to a crime scene, with proper reluctance and barely veiled eagerness, he comes like he would like to be anywhere else, he comes like he wishes someone would stop him. No one does, never, the other actors know his face now, if not his name, and no one is stupid enough to risk Sherlock's wrath. 

Prince charming flirts, but like that time where he pulled away with his lips barely hovering over Sherlock's hand, he never seems to go farther than surface touch. He's trapped in his own mind, he looks at him and sees a ghost, so one night Sherlock takes his face between his hands and makes him _see._

Their lips graze then collide, his Prince is all desperation and barely shrouded agony, he's with him this time, Sherlock knows, but it's also obvious that he wishes he was with someone else. It's his name that he moans though, when Sherlock does something particularly devious with his tongue, his name that he gasps when their hips grind together, his name that he cries out when he comes undone, SherlockSherlock _Sherlock._

Somehow, it still feels like he's calling that nameless someone, that unknown wraith, like he's calling _him._

Sherlock wants to kill his mystery man at that moment, it's brief white scorching rage and he wants to strangle him so much that his hands find themselves around Prince charming's neck before he can stop himself, digging painfully into the white skin. There's a beat, a silence, the other has his head thrown back, eyes lidded, his throat is bared and he looks like he's about to beg for it. 

_Do it do it do it_ , a voice whispers inside his mind, _do it like you mean it._

Sherlock rolls on his back, closes his eyes and tries to forget that look of utter _want_ the man had directed at someone that wasn't him. He feels sick. 

Prince charming curls around him then, his head on Sherlock's torso, and he lets him. He loves him after all, he knows he does. 

One night, they lie tangled in the divan of his dressing room, breath slowing, eyes closed, silence draped over them like a blanket. It's quietness, tranquillity and contentment, then Sherlock speaks. 

"We could do that in my flat you know, it would be more comfortable than here." 

Not that his dressing room isn't furnished with the most expensive gifts he received over the years, but it's not _home_ like 221b is, and he can't help but wonder just how breathtaking Prince charming would look sprawling on his bed. 

"No." The answer is definite, absolute.

Sherlock frowns, propping himself on his elbows to look at the other. 

"Why not? What's the difference between here and my flat?"

Silence stretches in the room, in the air, everywhere, and at first, he thinks the other is just looking for the perfect excuse-

Then he sees Prince charming's eyes, glazed over, haunted, the man tormented by something Sherlock can't see. 

"Memories." He whispers, the words so soft he thinks he dreamt them at first. 

_Teeth against his throat, nails clawing at his shoulders,_ he hears a murmur _of 'do it do it do it'_ and then his world is warping back to the dressing room. 

"Memories?"

"We all have a past Sherlock, ghosts." Prince charming breathes out almost softly, his gaze gaining a feverish intensity, a febrile fervour, and he realises it's the first time the man says his name, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a blessing, a curse. "They are the shadows that define our every sunny day."

It doesn't mean anything to him, he doesn't see what kind of past mystery man could have in his flat but he nods as if he understands. He wishes he did but it doesn't matter. 

Sherlock reclines and they lie in the divan, tangled still. 

"Do you paint Sherlock?" Prince charming whispers another night.

"I don't, why?"

"No reason, you just remind me of someone." He stares at the ceiling, unseeing. 

"You loved him. " Sherlock says. It's not a question, an accusation maybe. 

"I killed him. "

And he knows he should probably be concerned by the admission, but the only thing he can register is that he didn't say no. 

"Oh. " Sherlock hums "Why?"

"He was me." He says like it's supposed to make sense. Strangely, it does. 

There's nothing left to add, they both know, so Sherlock closes his eyes and wishes the other wasn't in love with a ghost. Maybe then, just maybe, he would love him back. 

Prince charming leaves in the morning like he was never there in the first place and Sherlock acts like he doesn't want to tear the world apart. 

"It's going to kill you Sherly, you know it is." his brother tells him one day, and of course he knows, _of course_. "You don't even know his name for God's sake!" He adds after a few seconds, anger seeping into his voice when he gets no reaction. 

Sherlock doesn't remember his brother's name either, he deleted it when he realised how ordinary the other was as a child, but he doesn't say anything. 

_It's James_ , some faraway part of his mind guffaws, as if James is a name meant for someone extraordinary, _his brother's name is James, he's a sailor and he's the most mundane man he has ever met._

"He's Prince charming, that's enough for me."

"It shouldn't be! And you know you'll be arrested if your-" he frowns, his nose scrunching with something that verges disgust. Sherlock wants to strangle him "-relation is made public brother."

Sherlock thinks about shrugging but he raises an eyebrow instead, mocking. 

"Really? They'll have to arrest most of the illustrious Lords of our dear Empire as well then, as I'm afraid I've received more than one flirtatious letter from those distinguished gentlemen... " he trails out, smirks "And do roses and invitations count as well? If so, Scotland Yard might need to add another Prince to the list. "

He won, he knows, his brother is red already, his jaw set. The older looks like he might punch him for a second, his hands closed into tight fists, but then he forces himself to breathe out and passes his hand through his hair. 

"Why are you always like that Sherlock? I'm just worried about you, you know that…" of course he does, that doesn't change anything. Then James looks determined, his dull eyes flashing "If that man ever hurts you, I'll kill him myself."

Sherlock knows that too, so he nods, smiles, _fix it Sherlock, fix it fix it fix it,_ a voice cries inside his head. 

"He might like that."

The next time he sees Prince charming, the man brings another bouquet, bluish primroses and purple phlox, he grins and kisses him like he loves him. 

_I can't live without you,_ the firsts say, _I'm sorry my own, it's for the best,_ his mind whispers. 

Sherlock ignores the murmur, glances at the others. 

_Our souls are united,_ he smiles. 

"That's surprisingly sweet. What's the occasion?"

"There isn't one dear, maybe I just liked your Iago, you were quite wondrous after all." He licks his lips with that hungry look he knows well, dark and deliberate. 

"I'm always wondrous. " Prince charming chuckles at his words "But I have to admit that it's far better to play Iago than Romeo." Sherlock stands up straighter, smirks, and someone else stands in his place "How am I then a villain to counsel Cassio to this parallel course, directly to his good?"

Prince charming kisses him then, grabs a fistful of his hair, tangles his fingers in the curls and presses their lips together- _with all the passion in the world,_ his mind finishes. 

Maybe Sherlock should have known then. 

Prince charming comes every day, until one day he doesn't. There's no note, no parting words, no "See you soon" or heartfelt goodbye- _no 'I'll come back one day',_ he just doesn't come the next night, or the nights that follow. Days turn into weeks, into months, into a year and SHerlock feels like the world has ended. He can't live like that he knows, Prince charming showed him what was life, finally made him alive with his kisses and pretty flowers, before disappearing just like he had appeared, taking whatever heart he might have had with him. 

When Sherlock closes his eyes, it's always him, _him,_ smiling with too sharp teeth, kissing him, _looking at the ceiling with empty eyes._

Mystery man accompanies his nights and his days, smirks inside his mind when another actor is particularly bad, growls in his ear when a young Duke kisses his hand, leaves imperceptible flowers in his dressing room and dances in his head. 

He's here, everywhere, yet he's not and Sherlock can't bear it any longer. 

The actor stands on a bridge one night, looks at the Thames below. It will look pretty if he decides to jump now, he somehow knows, the water will splinter into thousands of tiny ripples when he falls, and then he will be swallowed by the void and there will be no traces of his existence except for some dried flowers in his flat. He contemplates the fall, leans over the rail- 

_My own little Ophelia,_ a voice whispers inside his head, and he stops. 

No, jumping off a bridge is far too mundane, far too ordinary for someone like Sherlock- _far too ordinary for Prince charming,_ he thinks with a smile. 

He leaves the bridge, humming slightly as he makes his way back to the theatre. Briefly, he still hopes to see mystery man waiting by the door with a new bouquet, apologies on his crimson lips, but of course, he's not there, so Sherlock continues and goes to knock on the owner's door. 

"Oh, good evening Sherlock! " the older man exclaims when he sees his star actor. He's a pudgy little man with small, tired eyes, desperately trying- _and failing_ , to look at the peak of fashion. Sherlock pities him, sometimes, with the same kind of pity he gives everyone that isn't his mystery man "Did you want to ask anything?"

"I want to play Ophelia in our next representation of Hamlet."

"I beg your pardon?! " the man sputters, almost falling off his chair at the demand, before frowning. "Sherlock, even if you had been younger, boy players haven't been a thing since Kynaston and that was a _century_ ago! I don't doubt your acting prowess, far from that, but even you have to know that this won't be well received."

Sherlock keeps his annoyance off his face, smiling confidently. 

"Then isn't it going to bring even more people to the theatre? Come on, when have I ever disappointed you? You know this will be grand! Everyone already knows my Hamlet, people want something new! " he makes his voice calmer then, smoother, his expression determined "And if you're afraid because you don't have anyone to play Hamlet, I'm sure it would be easy to convince someone from another acting troupe if they knew who they would play with. "

There's silence but he knows he has won already. 

"I really can't convince you to give up on that foolish idea, can I?" Sherlock shakes his head and the older sighs "I don't understand why you would prefer that role over Hamlet's when you have so much fewer lines… "

The actor shrugs. 

There's a beauty in Hamlet's death too, he knows, but Ophelia is surrounded by flowers as she drowns and Sherlock remembers fingers threading his hair, whispering sweet words-

"Alright, you win, but I won't be able to do anything if Scotland Yard decides to take you in for indecency… You might have friends in high places but even they won't be able to help you publicly after a stunt like that. "

Sherlock shrugs. It's not like they'll have someone to arrest anyway. 

After that, he plans for days, nights, he doesn't sleep, barely eats, he wants it to be _perfect._

He doesn't show up at the rehearsals, but then he never showed before either, he just stays in Baker Street, looks for the perfect scheme, the perfect murder. 

He finds it and it's _beautiful_. 

The great day arrives, the first two acts are gone in an instant, _get thee to a nunnery_ Hamlet sneers in the third- _he wishes Prince charming had said that at least, he would have let him go then,_ he thinks, knowing perfectly it's a lie- and then Polonius is murdered and the delectable madness comes. 

Sherlock loves it, the insanity, the crazy, he sings, hands out flowers, and speaks in riddles. 

"God be wi' ye. " he laughs and twirls off the stage. 

Soon soon _soon._

Sherlock goes to his dressing room, to the bouquet of monkshood he managed to obtain, and eats the purple flowers one by one, forcing past their bitter taste to swallow them. 

_Beware, a deadly foe is near,_ he smiles and adjusts the blooms in his hair.

Time for his grand final... 

Act 4, scene 7.

Queen Gertrude arrives in the middle of the stage where Claudius and Laertes already are and she recounts how poor Ophelia drowned. 

Backstage, a pulley system lowers Sherlock from the sky until he's floating behind the characters, slowly drifting in an invisible stream. Ophelia lies back in the colourful threads like an angel dangling from the heavens, all waif-like limbs and flowy dress, colourful flowers contrasting against translucent skin and obsidian curls. His hair got longer now, Prince charming would probably love it as much as the flowers tangled amongst the strands, red poppies, forget-me-nots, fritillaries and a necklace of violets. 

Sherlock sings softly, barely enough for people to hear him beneath Gertrude's voice, he sings some old danish folk songs about love and flowers. He's starting to feel horribly dizzy already, his vision swimming in front of his eyes, and it makes him want to laugh.

"Alas then she is drowned. " Laertes whispers, and maybe it's the first time the other actor plays well, maybe he's too far gone to really care, but Sherlock can hear the soft finality in the words. 

"Drowned, drowned. "

_I don't want to die_ , he suddenly thinks, his chest hurts and he _doesn't want to die._

 _I don't want to live,_ a voice echoes in his mind, soft and sad. It takes him a second to register it's his.

Someone stands up in the middle of the audience and Sherlock meets a pair of- _familiar, familiar,_ pitch-black eyes widening in horror. It's unfair how pretty those eyes are, he thinks, the pain in his chest fading into the background now. He wishes Prince charming was there, he's sure the man would have found it all magnificent… 

There's a yell, a scream, and pretty Ophelia drowns in a stream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked this! :)  
> Also, I'm kinda sorry for what I've done to Sherly...? Please forgive me


	3. The detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is a detective, he's refined, often bored and everyone says he's a genius.  
> He is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update, this took an eternity to write!  
> It kept getting longer and longer, I guess I really wanted to write about those two?
> 
> Anyway, enjoy some relatively sane geniuses!

Sherlock Holmes is a detective, he's refined, often bored and everyone says he's a genius.

He is. 

He observes a crime scene and sees the murder, catches a speck of dust, a strange scent, and it all comes together before his eyes, the thread and the web, the forest and the trees, the fish and the ocean. Clients and suspects alike might try to lie to him, they might hide evidence and create clever forgeries, but in one single glance he sees their mistakes, their mistress' strand of hair on their sleeve, the nervousness in their stance, the blood beneath their fingertips. 

Easy easy _easy._

Maybe he should orchestrate his own murder next, Scotland Yard will find his dismembered limbs all around London and it'll be _glorious-_

Except that Dr Watson, his dear friend, will never believe that it was a suicide and will waste his life looking for his murderer, except that his brother, as much as Sherlock dislikes him, is smarter than he is and will instantly know, except that his landlady will need to find a new tenant and that Scotland Yard will struggle alone against all of London's crimes if he's gone. 

He shakes his head, struggling to fight the thoughts away. 

Sometimes he wonders how he would be in a world where Sherlock Holmes was born an only child, or maybe in a world where Mycroft isn't the brilliant prat that he is, sometimes he wonders if he still would be alive if John Watson hadn't crossed his path, if Scotland Yard's cases hadn't caught his interest-

Sometimes he wonders how things would be in a world where Sherlock Holmes is truly alone and sometimes he _knows._

It's the whiff of loneliness, the noose of boredom, the poison of apathy, he thinks about this forlorn universe every time his mind drifts for more than a few seconds and it scares him, it absolutely terrifies him. 

_Sherlock likes telling himself that he's afraid of that reality, of the absolute ennui, and how could he not be? But what horrifies him, what truly, completely makes his skin crawl, is the man he imagines staring back in the mirror._

He's a quaint one, the Sherlock Holmes from his daydreams, utterly bizarre, he has the dead eyes of a porcelain doll and the Reaper is hovering behind him with a smile, caressing his cheek like a lover. 

_Sometimes Death has dark hair and darker eyes, sometimes the skeleton is replaced by something that can hardly be called human, by a man who's all sharp edges and watercolour smiles, sometimes Sherlock can almost feel his touch on his skin._

Drugs are his escape these days, in the past it was Mycroft- _briefly, a long time ago, before the bitterness and the grudges,_ then it became the cases and Watson, but they're gone now-

Well, not his brother, of course, he's still living what can hardly be called his _life_ as an 'insignificant civil servant', and it's not like crimes have stopped, but they're so simple these days that the Yard hardly needs his help at all… The good doctor isn't exactly gone either, but he's been more than busy ever since his wedding and Sherlock hasn't seen him in weeks. 

Cocaine, seven-per-cent solution, he closes his eyes and the images are thankfully washed away. 

_Alas then she is drowned…_

_Drowned, drowned._

Sherlock gasps awake, his eyes snapping open as the remnants of the dream cling to the edges of his perception, filling his mind palace with soggy flowers and fragments of half-forgotten songs. 

This, _again-_

"Are you in here Holmes?" A familiar voice echoes outside of his room, Watson, visiting after nearly two months of complete radio silence "Mrs Hudson told me you were home but if you're busy I can come back later. "

Later? With Mary and the baby, the good doctor is so busy that even Sherlock's letters and telegrams remain unanswered for weeks...

Or maybe Watson just wants to distance himself from the detective now that he is settled with a wife and a child, it's another possibility but also one that he doesn't wish to contemplate. 

The dream put aside but not forgotten- _never forgotten,_ he stands up, stretching until the tension pops away. 

"Two minutes, feel free to make yourself a cup of tea until I arrive." It isn't like anything moved since the doctor left after all. 

Quickly putting on his favourite dressing gown- _floral print, with poppies and forget-me-not_ \- he tries to style his curls as best as he can with his fingers, before springing out of the room, his eyes immediately falling on his friend. 

"Watson, you look well." Sherlock smiles. It isn't exactly a lie and he knows better than to comment on his added weight and greying hair. It isn't like the detective himself is getting any younger after all. "How is married life treating you? "

He can easily deduce it of course, his friend is tired but well, the baby is keeping both parents awake all night and they hardly get any time to rest but they're happy and their couple is still going strong. 

That's nice right? He likes Mary, she's a good match for the good doctor, smart and driven… 

He should feel happy, shouldn't he? 

He doesn't, he just feels empty, empty with the kind of emptiness that shouldn't have been filled in the first place, with a void that has always belonged there. 

It's not pain, not quite, it doesn't hurt as much as it _lacks_ , Sherlock Holmes is a man of habitudes and John Watson became one of them over the years, worming his way into his carefully constructed routine. 

"Can't you tell? " the doctor asks with a grin, aware that the detective probably saw everything there is to see the moment he entered the living room. 

"I can but it's only polite to ask. " Watson nods, still smiling "I trust that Mary is doing well too? "

"Yes she is. Rosamund keeps us both on our toes but she's starting to sleep more at night. "

Sherlock attempts a smile of his own before letting it slip away, the mask feeling uncomfortable on his features. Usually it would hardly bother him, he's a good actor- _the best my love,_ a voice whispers inside his mind- but the detective isn't used to putting up a front while in his own flat, so he doesn't speak, doesn't react except for a hum of acknowledgement. 

A silence falls over them, thick and heavy. 

In a way, it's a lot like their usual afternoons at Baker Street in the time where Watson still lived there, no words, no conversation, just the quiet and the calm to convey their thoughts… Except where those moments of quietude felt relaxed, relaxing, now everything is just stifling, uncomfortable. 

They're simply not the two men that they used to be, it seems, which means that his dear friend changed because Sherlock certainly did not. 

_Didn't he? Didn't he? Sometimes he dreams of a flower-covered stage, sometimes his imagination turns Baker Street into an artist's studio, sometimes he remembers tightening his hands around a pale neck and digging his fingernails into the skin._

_Do it do it do it, do it like you mean it-_

After a few minutes without any word exchanged, the detective resolves himself to the inevitable and stands up, grimacing slightly.

"I would love for you to stay here longer but I’m afraid I promised Lestrade I would examine a crime scene for him today..." _Here, it's the perfect excuse isn't it?_ " You'll give my regards to Mary and Rosamund, of course? " 

The doctor immediately jumps to the occasion, to the branch held out by Sherlock. It's an exit, practically gift wrapped. 

"Oh I completely understand, it's quite alright! I can't leave them alone for too long anyway, I promised Mary I would be back for lunchtime." Watson fidgets with his moustache, obviously apologetic "Do come by sometimes Holmes, Rosamund would be happy to see her godfather more often. "

The detective somehow manages not to scoff. 

_As if an infant would miss his presence._

He likes the girl, of course he does, like he appreciates most messy but necessary things: from a proper distance. 

"Of course Watson, I'll try to drop by once I'm done with this case. "

They both know he won't like they both know he's not on a case right now, Sherlock Holmes hardly sleeps when a game is on after all, and when he crashes from exhaustion while on a chase it’s never in his bedroom. 

Smiles are exchanged, now nothing more than empty niceties, and then Watson is gone as quickly as he came, leaving nothing behind except for the faint smell of his aftershave. 

It's in his now empty flat that Sherlock realises something: _he's truly alone, isn't he?_

It's no longer a question of _'what-if's_ and _'could-have-been’s,_ his friend isn't dead, of course, he can still visit him but the companionship has faded, Mycroft is still brilliant, of course, but they rarely talks anyway, they're certainly not going to start now, he still has his cases, _of course_ , but they're dull _,_ easy _._

Easy easy _easy,_ the thought comes back, whispering words that sound so sweet inside his ears with a voice he recognises as his, _maybe he should orchestrate his own murder next, Scotland Yard would find his dismembered limbs all around London and it would be glorious._

This time, even thinking of John Watson, the Yard or his brother isn't enough to convince him to abandon the idea, they would get over his death after a few months, a year at worse, and it's not like Sherlock Holmes is immortal anyway, he's bound to die _someday,_ so why not go now, on his own terms?

He's actually starting to seriously consider it when he catches a glimpse of a mind like his own playing in the shadow, a glimpse of _him._

It starts, like all things ought to, with a dead body. 

A young actress, Silvia Marshall, is found in her dressing room after her performance as Ophelia, hanging. It's an obvious suicide, and Sherlock would have let the Yard rule the case as one if it wasn't for the paint. Her fingertips are covered in _paint._

It doesn't make sense, the girl wasn't known for her passion for art nor for having done any modelling, she isn't bad looking per se but she doesn't have that unique _something_ painters often look for, _no,_ all in all, she's plain, boring, just like her death if it wasn't for that little detail… 

She's the first of 8 murders, 8 elegantly disguised suicides, only linked by the pigments remaining on the victims’ hands as if their fingers had been individually dipped into differently coloured paint buckets, the vivid hues clashing with their ashy skin. 

It almost feels like a gift, or maybe a game, and for the first time in years he's not bored, he can't guess everything with just a single glance, he looks, looks, _looks_ but there's just nothing to see. Murders that look exactly like suicides, no evidence of struggling, no apparent reason for the death, no link between the victims, it's a mystery, an enigma, and god does Sherlock Holmes _love_ riddles. 

The 8 corpses are found, 8 like the number of white pawns in a game of chess- _they're merely placed, unmoved, his opponent took black and he's waiting for Sherlock's move-_ 8 like the number of legs of a spider- _and it's a spider he's facing, he doesn't doubt that for a second-_ 8 like oxygen's atomic number- _and the game feels like breathing for the first time, feels like_ life _._

Nothing connects the victims though, and that's what troubles him, they have different social backgrounds, different professions, different genders, origins, opinions, different _everything._

Sherlock writes their names on a sheet of paper, displaying them for the world to see, a list, a sequence:

Silvia Marshall, Harry Obworth, Edwin Riutini, Reily Ingerson, Loren Abbott, Oswald Ridge, Catherine Turner and Keith Young. 

Nothing _connects_ them-

But maybe it's the point. 

His eyes catch something on the paper, get stuck on the letters, and he has to write it out to make sure he's not dreaming. 

Silvia Harry Edwin Reiley Loren Oswald Catherine Keith. 

S H E R L O C K 

It's simple, minimalist and yet so elegant, an extended hand to signify the start of a dance… 

But what about the surnames then? His spider wouldn't have left anything to chance, not after this little display, not after asking him for a game without telling him what it is, there are too many factors left unknown and he can hardly play if he doesn't know the rules. 

Marshall, Obworth, Riutini, Ingerson, Abbott, Ridge, Turner, Young. 

M O R I A R T Y 

The letters might have been swapped around, but for some reason, his mind seems to echo the name, repeating it again and again until it blends with the rhythm of his thoughts. 

Moriarty, it sings, _Moriarty._

Sherlock, Moriarty, 8 letters, 8 cadavers, and a game. 

He doesn’t think the man is his murderer or even the mastermind orchestrating the crimes from the shadows as a killer wouldn’t give his name to a detective. Advertising isn’t very good in this line of business after all, so no no no, of course Moriarty isn’t the murderer, he’s merely another part of the game. 

8 letters, 8 cadavers, a message to Sherlock Holmes regarding one Mr Moriarty.

A few days later, he finds a first name, a missing piece of the puzzle:

It's _James_ , James Moriarty, he's a math professor and a brilliant one at that, he’s published a few books that reached heights of genius previously unknown- _no one even dares to criticize them by fear of showing just how little they were able to understand -_ and just like the previous victims, he has nothing to do with painting and seemingly no reason to end his life. 

_Doesn't he? In his dreams Sherlock sees dark, dark eyes, sees the plea that they repeat without voicing it, fix it, fix it fix it fix it, I don't want to live-_

Still, whether or not he's even aware of it, James Moriarty is his client now, and he'll be damned if he lets the man die- _mainly because that would mean losing the game as well,_ so he writes a letter, brief, barely courteous, asking for a meeting. 

_I'm afraid I must politely decline Mr Holmes, your reputation precedes you and I have no desire to end up tangled in some kind of murder mystery,_ is the answer he receives, and he can almost hear the laughter laced with the cursive. 

Why must the man not take him seriously? 

It's the first time one of his clients is this flippant about the possibility of his own demise and it's the first time he actually _needs_ someone to be worried about death. 

_People have died, and unless I figure out that 'murder mystery', you, Mr Moriarty, will too,_ Sherlock writes back, wondering whether or not storming into the man's living quarters wouldn't be faster… 

Oh, it certainly would be if he actually knew where the elusive professor lived, but even Mycroft hasn’t been able to provide him with an accurate address. 

_Dying is what people do Mr Holmes, death is the one thing that comes to us all, and I really don't see how I am related to this dreary affair in the first place,_ and the detective understands: it's not that the man doesn't care about dying- although he seems quite indifferent- it's simply that he doesn't think he's _concerned._

_You said that you knew of my reputation, then you must know that I am not one to lie. Someone wants you dead and I am sure you would like to remain alive._

He waits for the letter with bated breath, a day, two, and after a week he realises he just won't get an answer. 

_The white pawns wait, unmoved, untouched, 'Your move, Mr Holmes.' and it would be such a fine game if his pieces weren't glued to the board._

The first time Sherlock Holmes meets James Moriarty, it's completely by chance and it's at the opera. They're performing Bizet's _Carmen_ tonight, the detective is here because of another case the Yard is struggling with and even if he's physically there, his mind is still on his spider's case, on the 8. Moriarty is there because of his last book, _The Dynamics of an Asteroid,_ and the success it encountered, he's socialising with his peers, blending, belonging… 

It's the interval, glasses are filled, polite chuckles echoes in the room and Sherlock hears people toasting to 'Professor Moriarty's genius', so he gets closer, makes his way through the crowd, and then abruptly stops, staring at the man. 

_Ha_. 

If he even _is_ a man. 

Professor James Moriarty has dark- _familiarfamiliarfamiliar-_ eyes and black- _the stroke of a brush-_ hair, he's smiling slightly at the audience and it softens his features so much that he seems almost comical in his sharp suit- _it's done on purpose,_ some part of his mind notes, the part that remembers a bloody smirk and a sharp gaze. Sherlock ignores it though, he focuses on his client, on the pawn- _whether he's white or black remains to be seen,_ and continues to gape. 

It's almost amusing, how horribly young Moriarty looks, how abominably innocent and innocuous, seemingly a young man barely out of boyhood, barely of age-

It's amusing when one remembers that Moriarty is an adult and has been for a while now, that he's certainly younger than Sherlock but that he hasn't so much as grazed a classroom in years, that he already published multiple mathematical treatises and that his genius in that specific field is known through Europe. 

_How can you be so young?_ He mentally asks the man, _how can you be alive?_ His mind echoes. 

_He knows the answer to both questions, or at least he knew it at some point, but he doesn't try to remember._

"Mr Moriarty. "

The professor turns, sees him, and grins, a sharp thing that's all teeth and no actual mirth. When he does, the smile almost reaches his eyes. _Almost._

"Mr Holmes. "

For a man that doesn't answer his letters, he doesn't look that irritated by his approach, the glass held loosely by slender- _spidery-_ fingers, his face falling into an expression of polite interest. 

_I haven't seen any trace of your reply,_ Sherlock almost says, but no no no, he doesn't have time for fake grudges. 

"Someone wants you dead, Professor." 

Direct, frank, Moriarty looks around, making sure no one has heard him- _no one has, they’re too enraptured by their boring conversations_ , before grabbing his sleeve and ushering him out of the room. 

"Alright, I'm listening now, you won and you have exactly-" he glances at his watch. The interval ends in 10 minutes "-seven minutes to convince me before I go back to my seat."

Sherlock frowns, bristles, and retorts :

"Don't worry about the opera Mr Moriarty, I will hardly need more than a minute to expose the situation: someone is playing games with us-" with _me_ "- a someone that has already killed 8 people to do so, and that was just a prologue, a start. " he pauses, inhales, more for the dramatic effect than a real need of air "Nothing links the victims except for the fact that the first letter of their combined first names spells mine and the same process applied to their last name spells yours. "

"Sherlock and Moriarty? Is that all? " the professor snorts, obviously quite unimpressed, and the detective is reminded that this is the same man that seemed completely indifferent at the idea of his own death. "Then why aren't you accompanied by half of Scotland Yard then? Your name is there too, if I'm a target why wouldn't you be one as well? "

A reasonable question. 

"A bit of danger is hardly something unusual in my profession Mr Moriarty, and as far as I can a tell, I was the message's intended addressee-" the names of the victims haven't been shared to the press yet after all, so it couldn’t be meant for Moriarty unless his spider miscalculated "-which makes you the next target. "

The mathematician grins, cocks his head to the side in a manner that is both unsettlingly familiar and completely foreign before breathing out:

"The next game."

_How does he know?_

"I beg your pardon? " Sherlock asks, and when the professor smirks in answer, it's the first time of the night that the man shows real amusement. 

"I am not a fool Mr Holmes, this is a game, both for you and that phantom player. "

The detective scowls. 

"My goal is to keep you alive. "

_Moriarty’s voice screams inside his mind, feral, agonised, I don’t want to live I don’t want to live I don’t want to live-_

"To win, not because you care." his grin widens and suddenly he's everywhere in Sherlock's personal space, all-present, all-consuming. "Good." He whispers and for an instant, Sherlock is convinced that the words are echoing inside his head "Caring is never an advantage Mr Holmes."

There's a silence, the detective tries to breathe, tries to _think,_ and then Moriarty is moving away, his steps so light it seems like he's gliding. 

"What's your plan then? Your plan to keep me alive? "

_The voice doesn’t stop, doesn’t disappear, fix it, it howls, fix it fix it fix it-_

Sherlock keeps his eyes focused on the professor, just the slightest bit wary now, cautious. 

"I find myself without a roommate, so I was going to offer my flat as a safe house of sorts to keep you safe until I figure out why someone wants you dead and stop them." he explains slowly, watching Moriarty's reaction. 

The mathematician's face barely changes, barely twitches, but there's a hint of attention, of interest-

"Baker Street?” he hums, his mirror eyes lost in Wonderland “Alright Mr Holmes, I have to admit that I don't have anything crucial to do for the next few weeks, so I might as well accept… " _this easily? Sherlock expected more fight from the man_ "I trust that I will be able to bring some of my belongings?"

"Of course. "

Moriarty flashes him another one of his sharp grins, takes a small, mocking bow and whirls on his heels, only turning his head slightly to speak. 

"I shall take my leave then, _Carmen_ won't wait I'm afraid, but you can expect me at 10 sharp tomorrow." and there's that glint of amusement again, that hint of something more- _Moriarty’s eyes are dark and he knows, he’s not sure what but he knows he does_ "Good evening Mr Holmes. "

He leaves, just like that, and it takes Sherlock two full minutes to find his voice again. 

"Likewise Mr Moriarty, likewise… "

In the end, he solves the opera's case- _easy easy easy_ , watches Carmen's murder and goes back to Baker Street, spending most of the night making sure the flat is at least presentable. Mrs Hudson does make sure to keep dust from accumulating too much on the furniture, but she knows better than to disturb his organized chaos, which means that he has quite a lot to do before 221b looks habitable to ordinary people's standards… 

Not that Moriarty seems very ordinary, but Sherlock wants, _needs,_ to make a good impression. 

Just like he indicated, the professor arrives precisely at 10, placing his two cumbersome bags on the doorstep before knocking. 

"Mr Moriarty, you're right on time. " Sherlock says as he opens the door, examining the man. Moriarty is wearing another suit, deep blue this time, and his skin is slightly flushed by the brisk morning air, bringing colour to his usually pale face "Can I help you with your belongings? "

Moriarty smiles, a thin, reptilian thing, and nods. 

"Always Mr Holmes, and that would be very kind indeed. "

They climb up the stairs together, Sherlock opens the door to 221b and moves to the side to let the other enter after him, hoping the flat is tidy enough to be to his liking. 

Was he anyone else, he would have missed Moriarty's hesitation, the way he hovered at the doorway, how he closed his eyes, for slightly too long, with slightly too much force, and then forced them open, looking like he was seeing ghosts for a second. Was he anyone else, he would have missed it, but Sherlock Holmes wasn't the world's only consulting detective for nothing and so he saw. 

Had the mathematician visited his home before? That is rather unlikely as either Mrs Hudson or himself were there most of the time and no one would let him in if the building was empty… And even then, why the reaction? 

He starts to entertain the idea that maybe, _maybe_ , Moriarty knew a previous tenant, before remembering that even if his age isn't displayed by his youthful face, 221b had been empty for quite a while before Sherlock started living there. 

_A dead-end then._

The professor seems to shake himself out of his stupor, taking off his coat to hang it near Sherlock's before turning back to face him, still smiling slightly. 

"What now Mr Holmes?"

_What now indeed Mr Moriarty…_

"Tea? "

It's when they're settled in opposite armchairs with the warm cups in hand that Sherlock starts asking questions. 

"Did you know any of the victims? "

Moriarty snorts, shaking his head. 

"You would know if I did."

_Well, he wasn't exactly wrong-_

"I would know if your relationship was public. " he corrects. Still, Sherlock knows that this line of questioning probably isn't going to yield many answers "Then what about the rest? Do you have an interest in painting? What first comes to your mind when I say 8?"

"8…" The professor hums, ignoring or simply forgetting his first question "8 is a Fibonacci number, it's a composite, and also the first number which is neither prime nor semiprime."

That doesn't help a lot but Sherlock can't say he's very surprised by the answer, it sounds exactly like something a genius mathematician might say after all...

He wonders for a second if James Moriarty ever was anything other than a math professor at some point, a musician, a writer, anything, before realising just how stupid that thought is. The man appreciates art, but merely because he's always dissecting it in numbers, colours are values, music is an amalgamation of equations, and writing is just twisting the patterns made by the words. Even this, even the corpses and the looming threats are just another string of calculations in his brain, aren't they? 

"My next question might seem blunt, but are you working on anything that might make people want to murder you? Or did you not publish everything that you worked on? " Sherlock slowly asks, weighing the probabilities. It's possible, even if it doesn't sound likely, and it would explain somewhat why his spider was interested in the mathematician.

"Just what exactly are you accusing me of Mr Holmes? Devising military weapons? Having found a way to predict the future through algorithms? " his eyes sharpen, darken, until they're fragments of nothing, shards of the void, and then he speaks, low, so low that Sherlock isn't even sure the man is speaking at all "Catching Death in a portrait? "

_What have you done?!_ someone screams in his mind, screeches with all the pain of betrayal, and there's blood in his mouth, and there's blood filling his lungs, and _there's blood covering Moriarty's hands-_

"I am hardly accusing you of anything, I only want to know who might try to go after you. " he retorts calmly, letting none of his inner turmoil show "Knowing whether or not you insulted a gang or a foreign emissary might help me too. "

The professor smirks, leaning further into his seat before sipping on his tea. 

"I can assure you that my social skills are good enough to avoid this kind of missteps Mr Holmes." He tilts his head to the side, slowly looking around, and finishes his cup "Now, could you please show me where I'll be staying? I agreed to stay here since I have no time-sensitive deadlines to meet but I would like to continue working if that's the same to you, you can still ask your questions later, right? Or deduce it yourself if you're so smart. "

The last remark is thrown as a quip, a jab, the amusement clear in Moriarty's face, and Sherlock finds himself smirking back, but still, the man asked for his room so the detective shows it to him. Once upon a time it was Watson's room, but the good actor can hardly blame him for repurposing it when he moved out more than a year ago, can he? 

The professor moans about the lack of a desk, dumps his bags near the bed, and then follows Sherlock to the living room, falling back into the chair he vacated a few instants ago. 

"Do you play chess, Mr Holmes?" Moriarty abruptly asks after a few minutes of silence, his empty black eyes reflecting the candlelights. 

Of course he does, half of his childhood with his brother was spent getting absolutely destroyed at the game- _Mycroft stopped offering to play with him when he started to be evenly matched-_ so he knows he's more than able to hold his own even against some of the masters… Which is why neither the match against his spider nor the one against the mathematician worries him particularly. 

"Why, do you fancy a game, Mr Moriarty?" He purrs, leaning towards the other "Be warned that I won't go easy on you just because you are my guest Professor. "

Moriarty smirks, a confident, cocky curl of his lips, his eyes half-hidden beneath dark eyelashes. 

"And I would be offended if you did Mr Holmes."

In a minute, everything is set up for them to play, Sherlock insists on the professor taking the white pawns despite the man's insistence that he prefers playing the black- _he does need to give him a fighting chance after all-_ they sit, and the mathematician starts. 

30 moves. 

It only takes Moriarty 30 moves to back him in a corner and take his King, with him looking completely relaxed and nonchalant all the while.

They're silent for a few seconds, Sherlock because of the surprise, Moriarty because he's observing his reaction, and then the detective extends his hand, smiling. 

"Well played. One more time? "

The professor grins like a shark, all teeth and sharp edges, before slowly placing the pieces back on the board. 

"I'll take black this time, if that's alright with you. " he hums, proceeding to do so. 

Moriarty takes black for the next game, the one that comes after that, and all of the following, and he wins, wins, _wins._

Playing against him is like facing an automaton, a real Mechanical Turk that can somehow guess every single one of his moves before he even thinks about them. The mathematician plays immediately after Sherlock finishes placing his pawns, not even letting him the time to think, he simply takes a piece and moves it without a second of hesitation, already foreseeing the end of the game. 

Still, the outcome stays the same but the matches last longer than the first at least. 

"You are an admirable player Mr Holmes. " Moriarty says softly between two games, sipping on the whiskey Sherlock just poured him. 

"An admirable player? " he snorts "Have we been playing the same game Professor? The last seven checkmates would beg to differ. "

It's the other's time to look amused now, head cocked to the side. 

"I didn't expect you to win, I'm afraid I have too much experience-" his face sours, just a little bit, and Sherlock understands that he's not only talking about chess anymore. It's strange, for a man that looks so young to be so bitter about life, yet another mystery to add to a growing pile "-for that to be possible, but even I have to admit that you do give a good fight… Far better than Mr Wilhelm Steinitz that's for sure."

_Why doesn’t the fact that his house guest beat the current world Champion even faze him?_

"Well, as long as it doesn't bore you, I don't mind losing again." the detective smiles, before gulping down what was left of his drink and standing up "Although I do intend on beating you one day Mr Moriarty, I'm afraid it is getting quite late. "

The professor closes his eyes, leaning back into his armchair. 

"I don't think you could ever bore me Sherlock Holmes… " he whispers, the words barely audible, and Sherlock is about to comment on it when Moriarty suddenly jumps to his feet, expression closed, eyes open and unfathomable. "I shall hold onto that promise, but you're right, goodnight for now. "

And without adding anything, his new roommate whirls away and climbs the stairs, disappearing into his room. 

For most of the week that follows, they alternate between conversing- _Moriarty might be a mathematics professor first and foremost but he has a surprisingly extensive understanding of every subject they discuss,_ playing- _Sherlock still hasn't managed to win once but he's persevering,_ and spending time on their separate projects- _the detective tries to find more clues for his spider's games while the mathematician holes himself up in his room and seemingly writes all day, either letters to some associates or interminable equations in thick notebooks._

Things would have probably stayed that way for a long time if Scotland Yard hadn't suddenly called him, saying a body had been found with a note for him, the gory murder of an art collector. 

"I fear I need to go out Mr Moriarty-" Sherlock says, almost stumbling on the furniture in his haste, grabbing his coat and readying himself to close the door behind him before halting "-Would you fancy coming with me? "

They stare at each other with wide eyes, both surprised by the words that left his mouth, for one second, two, and then Moriarty is jumping to his feet, grinning so widely that it looks like the smile is slicing his face in half. 

"How can I say no? "

The carriage ride is permeated with Moriarty's giddiness, the man practically bouncing on his seat, seemingly too excited to even ask questions as they get closer to their destination. Every trace of his eagerness vanishes the moment they come to a stop though, Sherlock holds the door open for him and the mathematician goes back to his polite but guarded expression, his agitation only noticeable in the way he wastes no time to leap out of the carriage. 

"Holmes. " Lestrade says, the hint of a smile curling up the corner of his lips, before turning to look at the professor "And Mr…?

"Moriarty. " Sherlock begins "He's my-"

_Client? Roommate?_

"Friend. " the professor says before he can finish his sentence, extending his hand "Pleasure to meet you inspector."

If Lestrade is surprised by the address he doesn't show it, his expression merely gaining more warmth as he shakes Moriarty's hand. 

"The pleasure is all mine. "

"Now that the introductions are done, can you tell me more about the murder? Your telegram was rather short. " Sherlock asks, following Lestrade as he leads the way inside the house-

Well, the Manor to be more exact, that building is far too big and ornate to be called a house anymore, the old collector hadn't spared any expenses.

"Mr Olminger is known for his rather extensive art collection and his paranoia… He was found this morning in one of his exhibition rooms with his hands cut off and his eyes ripped out, a few art pieces are missing but everything else untouched."

The detective nods, recalling the content of the telegram. 

"Only the paintings from one specific artist, is that right? "

"Yes, a rather obscure one named-" Lestrade stills, his lips set in a hard line "-Sherlock Holmes, from the beginning of the century. "

_Sherlock Holmes?_

That hardly can be a coincidence and that explains why he was called for something that looks like a common, if gory, burglary… 

Hands dipped in paint and now a case involving a painter with his name? It has to be from his spider. 

"I had the luck of seeing some of his works up-close. " Moriarty says dreamily, his gaze lost somewhere, in his memories most likely "Very vivid, very realistic, certainly priceless. "

They arrive at the crime scene before Sherlock can ask if the ones he saw were from Olminger's collection and his attention snaps to the corpse. The detective immediately walks to the mutilated body, inspecting the injuries, cross-referencing the state of the wounds with some previous cases and his own experiments. Seeing how clean and precise they are, they were obviously made by someone who's an expert with a knife and knowledgeable with human anatomy… a doctor maybe, but most likely a surgeon, and one that is quite good with restraint since the injuries were made while the collector was still alive. 

"Oh, and there was a note, I assume it was for you since the other Holmes involved is quite dead. " Lestrade says, rummaging through his pocket and taking out a folded piece of paper. 

He hands it out to Sherlock, the message still unopened, and the detective carefully unfolds the note, revealing an elegant handwriting. 

_Do you understand yet my love? Our game started a long time ago and I've waited for years to see you dance again._

Sherlock shudders, telling himself it's because of the man's madness and not of the way the words seem to resonate in his very soul, pocketing the note without saying a word. 

In the end, he spends most of the day with Moriarty at his side, following trails and deductions until they lead him to the killer, a middle-aged surgeon put in so much debt by his betting addiction that he didn't hesitate to murder a man if that meant getting money. 

Following a short chase, he's caught, jailed and tried, the paintings though, are never heard of again. 

After that day, Sherlock continues to play games with his spider- _a few murder mysteries, a few flirtatious notes, nothing that brings him closer to solving the riddle that is Moriarty_ , with the professor- _James, he insists, as he beats him in chess for the third time in a row that evening,_ and the world carries on turning. 

There's one note in particular that grabs his attention though, one day after months of relative calm, it's unlike the others, the words are hurried, the cursive almost sloppy, _manic_. 

_You see it too now, don't you my dear? We were made of the same fabric, of each other, for each other-_

The sentence doesn't end with the small flourishes he has come to expect, it doesn't _end_ really, it looks like his spider stopped while in the middle of writing it, the tiny jerky line after the r indicating that it wasn't completely intentional… Yet the man chose to send it, to show weakness? 

Sherlock frowns and brings the letter close to his nose, inhaling deeply. The notes are usually completely odourless, betraying nothing, but this one has a faint scent, a vague smell of a familiar cologne, hints of a fragrance he came to know too well-

_James._

The man who has that very specific odour, the man who left Baker Street two days prior to meet some publishers for his last treatise and is still away, the man who hasn't contacted him since his departure… 

_His roommate, his client, his friend._

"Holmes! " a voice rips him out of his tumultuous thoughts. It's obviously not Mrs Hudson, the man calling him from downstairs and hammering on the door... Lestrade. 

Sherlock goes down the stairs and opens the door with a barely hidden scowl. 

"What is it?" 

"Moriarty was found half-dead in Cambridge's library, poisoned."

_Moriarty,_ his mind echoes, _half-dead,_ thank god for that half, _poisoned._

"Is he… " he stops, the words refusing to leave his mouth, staying stuck in his throat. "Is he…?"

_Okay? Dying? Dead?_

They found him alive, that doesn't mean he still is-

 _Moriarty, dead,_ his very being howls at the possibility. 

Lestrade hesitates, probably seeing the panic in his eyes and not knowing how to calm it, but he ultimately answers. 

"He's unconscious, still convulsing, I don't know more since I came as soon as I got the news. I thought you should know. " 

Sherlock doesn't take his coat nor his scarf, he doesn't even bother taking off his slippers to put on his shoes, he merely steps out still in his dressing-gown, grabs Lestrade's arm and leaps into the inspector's carriage

"Take me to him."

The ride is spent in complete silence, the detective trying not to remember the countless times he made the journey from his flat to St Bart's with Moriarty at his side, trying to forget that every time it was to see a dead body. 

James Moriarty won't die, _can't_ die, not if Sherlock Holmes has anything to say in the matter. 

And he does _\- what have you done Sherlock?-_ he _did_. 

"Do we know what he was poisoned with? And how? " he finally manages to ask, his eyes sharpening as they find the familiar shape of the hospital. 

"We haven't no, not yet, that's why I came to tell you so quickly too."

Finding what was killing him would marginally improve his survival chances after all… 

"He was in Cambridge you say? "

Lestrade nods, more comfortable with that line of questioning. 

"Yes, in a secluded part of the library reserved for professors but not that visited since they usually work in their offices." The carriage stops, the inspector jumps out, still speaking "A student happened to pass by and wanted to ask his opinion on his thesis-" _as if James would have bothered with that-_ " but Moriarty told him that he was busy and to come back ten minutes later. When the student did come back, he saw him convulsing in his armchair and immediately called for help."

"When was that? "

Lestrade glances at his watch, frowns. 

"Almost 45 minutes ago, the news came rather slowly to the station but I went to Baker Street as soon as I heard Holmes. "

_45 minutes-_

What said the professor was still breathing?

_Nonono he can't die, he can't possibly die-_

He abandons the inspector and runs inside, startling the nurses with his frantic demands for his roommate, unrelenting until one gives him the number of his room. In an instant, he's dashing up the stairs, almost tumbling in the steps, and throwing the door open.

_James._

Saying that he doesn't seem well would be an outrageous understatement when the man looks like he will soon belong in a morgue, tremors running through his limbs, sporadic convulsions wracking his thin frame. 

James Moriarty is lying on the hospital bed, his flushed skin contrasting starkly with the pasty white sheet, his face contorted in silent torment, and suddenly Sherlock can't breathe, he _can't,_ because it's MoriartyJames _Jim_ that's dying and _he's not supposed to die he can't die-_

"Are you alright sir? "

A nurse places a comforting hand on his arm, jerks him out of his thoughts until the only thing remaining of that abject terror drowning his mind is the faint smell of paint and blood. 

"I'm not the one lying in a hospital bed, am I?" He asks, his voice coming out more acidic than he wished if he can believe the woman's reaction. 

"Are you sure you don't need to sit down? "

This time Sherlock doesn't even try to hide his scowl. 

"I applaud your concern, I really do, but Moriarty is merely my client, nothing more." The detective says coldly, his eyes fixed on the dark eyelashes, on the gasping mouth, on that face he became so familiar with twisted in agony. 

_That face he sees in his very dreams-_

The nurse shrugs. 

"Well, I guess you should still know that we don't know if your _client_ will pass the night Mr Holmes, we did our best without knowing what he ingested but there's just so much we can do without risking worsening his condition."

_Without knowing what he ingested-_

Sherlock mentally slaps himself for the slowness of his mind, immediately starting to draw out notes upon notes on poisons from his memories. Convulsions, hyperthermia and a rapidly worsening condition… He flies over the most commonly used poisons, hoping their poisoner took the lazy way and chose one that was well known for its potency. 

Cyanide is immediately forgotten, of course, not the good symptoms and far too quick, atropine poisoning soon follows suit, the perspiration on his skin betraying something else, and arsenic is thrown away without as much as a second thought because of Moriarty's lack of violent vomiting-

_What then?_

Think Holmes, _think!_

He paces in the room, around the bed, his roommate's twitching form only making his panic grow, his thoughts growing blurrier inside his mind, evading his grip, and the worse is that he knows, he knows that he _knows,_ but he just can't grab the information… 

_Wait._

Sherlock whirls around and in an instant he's next to the bed, ripping off Moriarty's clothes despite the nurse's outraged cries, his hands running over the pale skin in tandem with his eyes-

"It's strychnine! "

The woman blinks once, twice. 

"What? "

"The poison, it's strychnine! " she still doesn't move, gaping, and the detective's face twists in a feral snarl "Don't just stand there with your patient dying on a bed! He needs tannic acid and chloroform as well to make sure he doesn't wake up before the strychnine is out of his system."

Finally, the nurse nods mutely and scurries out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone with the professor. 

"Strychnine, really James?"

He initially crossed off this one because of its bitter taste as he knows the other man is more than smart enough to detect it, but what if he didn't drink it? What if it wasn't something that was ingested but _injected?_

His suspicions were right seeing the small, almost invisible wound left by a needle in the small of Moriarty's back, the slight bruising around the mark indicating that it was projected with significant strength while the tears at the edges of the wound showed that the - _dart? Syringe?_ \- injector was violently ripped out afterwards. 

There is just a tiny, little detail that disturbs him though… 

Strychnine is known for being fast-acting but not _that_ fast and Lestrade said that a student visited the professor ten minutes before he was found convulsing, which means that he was already poisoned at this point, means that he was already feeling some of its effects and that he knew he wasn't just under the weather since he had ripped out the injector-

_Then why didn't he ask for help?_

Sherlock needs to see the crime scene so he leaves his roommate lying unconscious and hails a carriage for Cambridge, watching London's grimy streets from the window for the entire ride. 

_James knew he was poisoned, he knew but he did nothing-_

_No, that isn't quite right, the student said he was busy, didn't he? So he did do something, something he considered more important than getting help or pursuing his would-be murderer…_

"We're here sir. "

Sherlock tosses the man some money- _probably more than necessary-_ and strolls inside the university like he belongs there, using confidence as an entry pass. No one stops him thankfully, and a student even gives him directions when he says he's looking for the library. In no time he's in the secluded room Lestrade mentioned, wondering why Moriarty was there in the first place when he had told him he was going to meet some publishers. Maybe the meeting had been postponed and he had decided to work here instead of coming back to Baker Street? That was probable but the man never indicated that he didn't enjoy Sherlock's company like the detective enjoyed his… 

Neither the room nor Moriarty's belongings give away his real motive in the end, but what he does find is the injector. As he surmised, it's a dart, small enough to be shot discreetly yet containing enough liquid to kill quickly-

Sherlock frowns, compares what he knows about the poison with the quantity of strychnine in the dart, recalls the professor's state and just furrows his brows further. 

_There's no way anyone could have survived this dose long enough to be brought to a hospital._

When he comes back to St Bart’s with more questions than answers and still no idea of who could have attacked the other, James is still unconscious but he's not convulsing anymore, he's obviously feverish but that's nothing considering what his body went through, considering the fact that he should be _dead._

He'll be fine, Sherlock knows, impossibly enough he'll be fine. 

_He has to._

Two days later he wakes up, half-delirious, gives the name of his attacker- _a colleague angry with the professor's intellect and arrogance who decided to end his career alongside his life... He hid his face of course, but forgot that the intelligence he hated so would easily discover his identity -_ and promptly passes out again, leaving the detective to do the chase and catch his almost-murderer.

After two weeks of convalescence during which he is able to hold more or less lucid conversations with Moriarty- _Sherlock immediately calls for a nurse when he somehow manages to win one of their chess games_ , the professor is freed from the hospital and brought back to Baker Street, left weaker by the ordeal but otherwise healthy… Although he now insists that Sherlock helps him walk around the flat. The detective is half convinced he just does that to touch him but he doesn't say anything. 

_The strange note is forgotten like he never received it in the first place, hidden in a drawer with all of his spider's messages._

Time passes sluggishly, James Moriarty initially agreed to stay for a few weeks at most, but months come and go yet he remains, filling the void Watson left behind, weaving his way into every part of his every-day routine. Of course, what they have is not exactly a _routine_ , it's hardly like the two of them follow a set schedule, but they somehow make it work and everything churns flawlessly, without a single hitch, like they were made for each other-

The thought comes to him as he's in the living room with the other and he stills before jumping to his feet, passing around the room, all of the details that made no sense coming back to the front of his mind in an instant. 

_Made for each other…_

He remembers his spider's note, remembers what could have been an almost sweet taunt warped by- _by what? Pain? Fear? No, no-_ tremors, the unfinished feeling, the familiar fragrance permeating the paper-

_You see it too now, don't you my dear? We were made of the same fabric, of each other, for each other._

But Moriarty was found lying unconscious just a few minutes after he received that letter… 

_And Moriarty knew he was dying yet he sent that student away instead of making him call for help, sent him away because-_

He was writing that letter. 

Sherlock gasps, his eyes flying open with the realisation.

“James…” he breathes out, watching the smaller man make his way across the room, watching his- _client? friend? spider?-_ roommate slowly smiles, the expression completely genuine, almost frightening in its sincerity.

_Moriarty knows, of course he knows that he knows, he’s been waiting for weeks, months, forever for him to realise._

James is standing next to Sherlock's chess set now, the one the detective laid out to record his spider's actions, his movements, the motion of his pawns, everything of the game he’s obviously losing. He’s standing still like a statue, like another one of the ivory figurines that lie on the board, and then he’s not.

“Your move Mr Holmes.” he breathes out softly, oh so _softly_ , moving the black King with all the nonchalance in the world, _and this should be checkmate_ , Sherlock thinks, this should be checkmate because there's no way he can get back from this. 

James Moriarty isn't a pawn in his game with the criminal mastermind, he never was, he’s another player, _the_ other player. His spider. 

_His his his._

James Moriarty is the Napoleon of crime, he's dazzling, invisible and no one would think he's the most dangerous man in the world. He is and Sherlock Holmes kisses him like he can devour his brilliance on his lips. 

The pawns fall off the chessboard as they stumble, struggle, it's half an embrace and half a fight where neither man wants to lose, it's yet another game, it's an experiment, it's the dance his spider hinted at with the 8.

_Prince Charming smiles, holding out a bouquet. Tuberose, dangerous pleasure, Viscaria, will you dance with me?_

And dance they do, their tongues waltz, their hips shimmy, they whirl around the flat, trip their way into the bed and tango between the sheets. One second James- _JimJimJim his mind sings-_ is beneath him, the next he's flipping them over and aggressively pressing their lips together while his nails dig crescent-shaped marks into Sherlock's hips, they brawl and scuffle and there's blood on both of their lips from the mirrored bites they left there. 

_There's blood in his throat, he laughs and he drowns-_

The detective takes back control, pins his spider onto the mattress and tears off his clothes, swallowing the man's half-hearted complaints with his mouth, and then James- _JimJimJim, Sherlock tastes paint on his tongue-_ is throwing his head back, baring his neck, watching him with lidded eyes, and that scene is _so familiar-_

_Prince Charming is lying beneath him, in that same position, his expression desperate, agonized, then it's Jim-_ it's always him _, Jim_ \- _straddling his lap, putting Sherlock's hands around his bruised throat, purring "do it like you mean it this time."_

He almost physically recoils, his breath coming in sharp pants that don't bring nearly enough air to his lungs, his eyes wide in a mix of fear and hunger, because _what was that-_

The fantasies- _the memories,_ a familiar voice lilts _-_ slip away like mirages in a desert and he's alone with James again, with his mirror image beneath him- _he wrote Sherlock Holmes at the bottom of the portrait, he's not sure whether it's a signature or a title-_ writhing in a desperate effort to get more friction. He presses their lips together, steals his breath away and lets go of every restraint until his very world fades into inky eyes and gouache skin. 

In the morning, he wakes up feeling like he was thrown down Big Ben's stairs multiple times and he looks like he got into multiple bar fights, but there's a warm weight on his chest, a head placed on his torso, and Sherlock decides a few bruises are more than worth it if he gets to colour James' milky skin in return. 

"I missed you. " Moriarty whispers against his neck, teeth brushing against his throat "I missed you so much Sherlock." and he sounds like he's choking, like he can't quite breathe-

The detective freezes, words that don't belong to him scraping his throat, dying a bloody death on his lips. 

"Then why did you leave?"

_There's a knife embedded in his chest and everything feels like a dream, a portrait with bloody hands and he's drowning in a stream, a pair of dark, dark eyes and a scream._

James pushes himself off his chest and he's glorious like that, with his black hair tousled and bruises forming a violet necklace around his throat, he's splendid, otherworldly, then he smiles and the desolation in his gaze is so all-consuming that Sherlock can't see anything else. 

"Because we both know you can't stay."

_I don't want to die,_ he thinks, _I don't want to die-_

But he knows that one day he will, so he kisses James like it's the last thing he will do- _with all the passion in the world,_ his mind sings- and eat the despair away. 

Things don’t really change after that day, after that discovery, maybe they should have, ordinary people would say that things ought to change when you realise that your roommate is a criminal mastermind, but then Sherlock never was ordinary. 

So no, things don't really change, at least when they're out of the flat. James still accompanies him to the crime scenes, watching him deduce with hungry eyes, they still act like good friends while they chase criminals together, and Sherlock still receives morbid love letters- _because that's what they are, what they always were-_ from his spider. 

Once they're safely inside 221b though… 

Lips crash, temperaments clash, teeth flash, they're constantly fighting, their game transposed from the chessboard to the inside of 221b. It's not nice, never nice, they tussle for dominance, wrestle for control, using everything in their arsenal to get the other to back down and submit for the night, more of a battle between the world's only consulting detective and the Napoleon of crime than anything else.

It's never nice but sometimes it's sweet, once they get the aggression out of their bodies, once they lie sprawled on the bed and they have nothing left to prove, Sherlock's bloody lips leave butterfly kisses on the variegated bruises he left there, James gently runs his fingers through the dark curls he pulled earlier and whispers honeyed threats with poisonous endearments. For a few hours before dawn, they just forget who they are, enjoy the touches and act like they're in love. 

_Maybe they are, in a way._

Usually, they manage to keep the marks where clothes can hide them but more than once they need to go out together afterwards and deliberately get into a bar scuffle to explain their injuries. It's easy to start a fight, it really is, they deliberately rile up a few drunk men by mentioning things they shouldn't be able to know but deduced all the same and delight themselves in the resulting chaos, slipping out after a few minutes when everyone is too occupied to notice them. 

Lestrade is none the wiser but Mycroft shoots them both a disapproving look when they visit the Diogenes club at his demand, obviously aware of who punched his brother in the jaw and just how the professor's temple became closely acquainted with a wall. The two consultants just smirk, unbothered by the judgement. 

It's not like they could stop even if they tried. 

Sherlock, Moriarty, it's an octave, an interval, a note echoing itself, they clash and fit in a way that isn't natural and they can't get enough of it. They devour, consume, lay waste to each other in the hopes that they will form one entity once they stick the pieces back together. They never do- _never will-_ but that doesn't stop them from trying. 

One day, after a particularly strenuous case, James brings him back to his flat, _'it's closer than Baker Street'_ he says, and it's not a lie, but the glint in his eyes indicates that there's more than that to it. 

Sherlock doesn't ask though, he waits, watches, he follows Moriarty into his house- _his headquarters more likely-_ and prepares himself to finally breach into the elusive man's private life… He's not quite ready for what he sees however, and he isn't able to hide his surprise. 

The walls are covered with paintings, every inch available hidden by canvas, hundreds of eyes falling on them and following their every movement the moment they open the door to the flat. 

"What-" 

The question stops in his throat, stills and forces him to choke on it to draw air, it stops because it's at that precise instant that he sees the _name_ scribbled at the bottom of every artwork, the elegant signature, the 8 letters, familiar, haunting-

_Sherlock._

"Sherlock." James breathes out, and for a second he doesn't seem quite sure whether he's speaking to the detective or the dead painter. 

The detective looks at one of the paintings, steps closer, enthralled, and immediately smiles. 

_'The Baron of Ulfheim and his love. '_ the title reads, and he can feel Moriarty's silent laughter against his neck, his spider now half draped over his left shoulder. 

"Funny, it's it? The Baron asked the painter to depict him with his recently deceased wife and was very happy with the result, no one seemed to get the joke. "

Sherlock turns and faces him, their faces so close together he can see every tiny speck of gold into James' umber eyes, so close that their breaths are mingling against their lips. 

"But you did." He whispers. 

The other nods, pleased, waiting for him to prove what he already knows. 

"The Baron was cheating on his wife with her younger, prettier sister, and when she discovered it she tried to blackmail her husband for money. "

"But? " Moriarty asks, grinning against his neck. 

"But our dear Baron was already in debt and he feared the scandal that would arise if his affair was revealed to the world… "

An arched eyebrow, _so?_

"So he killed her and camouflaged the murder as a suicide, probably waited for a year or two and then married a rich widow, leaving the prettier sister behind. "

"And how did he do it? " James purrs, his hands wandering lower and lower with each passing second, amusement and delight rolling out of him in waves. 

Sherlock tries to keep his breath even, fixes his eyes on the painted figures before closing them with a soundless gasp when teeth graze his jugular. 

"Poisoned her nightly drink with the sleeping pills she sometimes took."

It's all there, mixed with the paint, the slight tension in the baroness' posture, the bags under her eyes indicating her need for the sedatives, the half-filled tumbler in the Baron's hands… The way his smirk is just a bit too sharp, the hair- _too light to be his wife-_ stuck around his shirt's button, the manner in which the couple is standing close together while obviously wanting to be apart. 

It's a crime-scene on gouache, no one saw it but it's all _there._

James laughs again, high and elated, before whirling away. 

_Follow me,_ he means but doesn't say, and so Sherlock does, his eyes flickering from one painting to the other, seeing all of the little details, all of the truths hidden away in the paint. The rooms are empty save for the artworks, voids whose sole purpose is to showcase the pictures, hallways of paint, chambers of pigment. 

As they walk, the paintings begin to change, they get rarer, a few adorning the walls instead of completely covering them, and the subject of those paintings… James Moriarty stares back at him from the gouache, smile plastered for all eternity, eyes dark and tantalizing, he's there, everywhere, a fearsome pirate once, a wicked-looking priest another time, his face is repeated again and again like a variation, a variance. 

The professor doesn't stop in front of any of the paintings though, not the one depicting him naked on a bed, not the one where he's holding a knife and smiling madly, he just continues to walk, walk, _walk,_ and then they reach what must be James' room and Sherlock freezes, once again caught off guard. 

At first, he thinks that the room is empty save for the king-sized bed, minimalist, simple, and then he sees it, the portrait, and he can feel that he's seen in return. 

Can it really be called a portrait when it's not a man but a grinning skeleton that's staring back at him? 

"Memento mori? " Sherlock asks, forcing himself to look away to face the other. 

James smiles strangely, shakes his head. He's being quiet, too quiet, his expression impossible to decipher, his eyes empty. 

"Memento vivere, my love. " his smile falls away and he steps closer to the portrait, bringing Sherlock's attention back to it. 

The skeleton is artfully reproduced, gleaming white bones clashing with the dark fabric of its suit and the crimson liquid- _blood, there's blood in his throat, blood on the portrait's hands and he laughs-_ coating its phalanges, nothing is out of place, nothing was forgotten, except-

"The eye sockets, why can we see the background through the eye sockets? "

It doesn't make any sense, not when everything is perfect otherwise, the painter wouldn't have made such an obvious mistake, would he? 

The professor doesn't answer, not at first, he walks slowly around the room, humming as if he hasn't heard the question, whirling on the ball of his feet once he encounters a corner-

He turns back, faces him, his hand mimicking a gun, his pink tongue twirling around the digits he placed inside his mouth, and then he grins widely, imitates a gunshot and the mock recoil throws him back on the bed. 

In a second, Sherlock is pouncing on him, speaking into his ear. 

"A suicidal skeleton? "

James laughs and the resulting vibrations make his blood thrums, the sound echoing inside his own rib cage. 

"A suicidal man."

He wonders who he's talking about for a second, whether his words are directed towards himself- _I don't want to live, fix it Sherlock-_ or someone else- _there's a scream and pretty Ophelia drowns in a stream-_ but he decides that it doesn't really matter in the end, the portrait isn't important right now, they're warm and hungry and _alive-_

Hands tighten in his curls, pulls his hair, pulls him close, and the lips crashing against his make everything else fade away. 

"Do you paint Sherlock?" James asks at one point later that night when they're both lying in the bed, nails grazing Sherlock's skin as he watches him with lidded eyes. 

_Do you paint Sherlock?_

_I don't, why?_

The detective scowls internally, buries the echoes alongside half of his face into the pillow. 

"I don't but you do."

Moriarty walks around with impeccable fingernails, always, but there are the 8 between them- _an octave, two notes answering each other -_ and he let Sherlock here, inside his house, let him inside his most private space, so of course the world's only consulting detective noticed things. They both know it's not an accusation though, it's merely a fact, and James shrugs. 

"Sometimes. I wondered why anyone would find it interesting."

His voice lilts, tilts, modulates the words as if they have a thousand different meanings and he doesn't know which one to choose. 

"Was your experiment conclusive? "

"No. " he frowns "At least I thought so but I guess I just didn't have the right muse."

A hand finds its way on Sherlock's cheek, and James is drawing him closer, _closer,_ until their foreheads are brushing, until their very minds are meeting through all the blood and the bones. It's simple yet so _right_. 

"It's always just you and me Sherlock."

And he knows it’s the truth, he knows and he _remembers._

He remembers crimson paint and violence, his hands tightening around a pale neck, he remembers a stage and flowers, soft kisses placed like blessings on his skin, he remembers the 8 cadavers, the pawns and the octave-

Then as soon as it came, it's gone, just like his dreams once the morning comes. 

He frowns and looks back at the portrait, at the skeleton, and Death grins back. It's not really a smile, of course, it doesn't even truly look like one, there are no lips to be pulled, no muscles to do the pulling, no skin to wrinkle at the corner of the mouth, it's just a skull missing the back of its head, staring at nothing. 

_He wrote Sherlock Holmes at the bottom, and he's not sure whether it's a signature or a title_.

Maybe he doesn't need to know in the end, maybe it's better if that question remains unanswered. 

In the morning, they leave the room, leave that empty museum of a flat, leave the mausoleum to the portrait hanging in its centre, and they never go back- _James does, when he thinks Sherlock is too busy to notice, he disappears for an afternoon, a day, and when he comes back he looks more skeleton than man, the bones almost visible through the skin._

They don't talk about it either, that Conduit Street flat becomes a taboo just like his weird flashes of forgotten memories and his spider's death wish, they just act like it doesn't exist and go through life like they always did before… 

_Ah._

It can’t last, they both know it can’t, Sherlock only gets older, wearier, his dark curls coloured silver by time, while James is just as painfully young as the first time they met, so of course, _of course,_ they know, but it doesn’t mean they don’t try.

It works, for years it does, they continue to fight and love and _live,_ but _it can't last-_

"Professor James Moriarty needs to die. " James sighs one day, looking at the ceiling from his position inside Sherlock's arms. 

He's been looking like a man in his mid-twenties for far too long now, and the questions have gone from amused awe to envious suspicion, they both know it won't be long until whispers behind his back turn into something more sinister… 

"Sherlock Holmes does too. " 

His spider pushes himself to a sitting position and looks at him with wide eyes, surprise mixing with anger. 

"What? No he doesn't." His expression is just as sharp as his voice now, cutting, absolute, but his gaze flows away from his face, refusing to meet his stare. 

"James, just look at me!" Sherlock snarls, grabbing the other's shoulders in what must be a painfully tight grip "Look at me!" This time, his ire is enough to make Moriarty glance at him, the professor's eyes immediately going from his silvery hair to the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. "I'm not getting any younger, you're not getting any older, it can't last forever. "

There's a beat, a silence, then-

"I know. " the words are so low, so soft, that he's not quite sure he heard them for a second "I _know,_ but I can't let you go. " and there's despair in his voice, in his features, permeating the very air around them. 

Automatically, Sherlock's arms close around the smaller man, bringing him flush against his chest, hoping the warmth and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat will be enough to pacify him. 

"It's okay, you'll find me again, I know you will." He trails off, his voice softening, losing that determined edge "You did it twice already, you _will_ find me and we’ll be together again."

_And we'll be young and happy and everything will be alright because at the end it’s always just you and me-_

James nods mutely against his chest, his breath itching before he forces himself to repeat Sherlock’s words.

"I’ll find you, even if it takes me years, even if the world is torn asunder, I'll find you."

It's obvious that he hates the idea, but he also knows that whatever he says, the reality of the situation won't change, the detective will continue to wither away slowly until one day only a husk of his former self is left in his place… And even if they do figure out how to stop the ageing process, he would never look quite right next to his spider with his current appearance, so no, really, death on his own terms is the best- _the only-_ solution. 

They wait another year before acting, before putting their final plan into motion- _it's their final problem, James likes to say-_ Sherlock is there for Rosamund's wedding, smiling at Watson when he notices him in the crowd, and the next day he's gone, vanished. 

He leaves no note, not to the good doctor, not to Mrs Hudson, not to Mycroft- _Mycroft already knows anyway, he always seems to know everything-_ he just leaves to join Moriarty in the Swedish Alps and never looks back. 

_They decide on Reichenbach on a whim, an impulse, they'll jump into the falls together and either the height or the violence of the water will kill them, quick, simple, elegant and dramatic enough to mark the final dot at the end of Sherlock Holmes' life._

James has no reason to be here though, not really, they both know he won't die and that the fall will only pain him- _not the fall Sherlock, it's never the fall-_ but he insisted, batting his worries away. 

"You don’t need to come, you know? Or you don't need to jump at the very least." Sherlock says softly when they meet up in the hotel the closest to the falls, embracing the other from behind, his kisses more gentle than he can ever remember them being. 

"Shut up." 

It's low, dangerous, but still, he can't let it go that easily, not when he knows that the wounds will heal, of course they will, with time they'll completely vanish and Moriarty will be as young and beautiful as he always is, but they will _hurt._ The man doesn't have any kind of supernatural recovering power so the evidence of his fall- _his landing-_ won't disappear in a night and his convalescence certainly won't be painless… Sherlock can't quite get out the idea of his spider crawling out of the water with broken limbs and a caved-in skull, shaking with agony, forced to face the consequences of their choice alone. 

"James, listen to me please, I don't mind if I jump alone alright?" The professor doesn't answer but Sherlock can feel him shake slightly inside his arms, barely restraining his anguish, and so he continues, his voice quiet, soothing "There's no need for you to be in unneeded pain, I'll die just as well without you at my side-"

A fist connects with his right cheek, skin splitting under the strength of the blow. While he was speaking, James had whirled around and easily got out of his embrace before hissing like a feral cat and punching him straight in the face, his dark eyes promising murder. 

"I told you to shut up Sherlock, don't talk like it's your decision to take, you have no say in this, _love_." he spits out, baring his teeth in a sardonic smile. 

_Oh he'd been blind, the shudders running through Moriarty weren't caused by grief but fury, burning white rage, anger so fierce that it manages to make the usually restrained man tremble with its force._

The detective bites his lips, forcing himself to stay quiet even though his first instinct is to argue, to prove to the man just how pointless it is to jump with him-

But no, James is right, it's not his decision to make and he doesn't want to fight not now, not when this could very well be their last memory together. 

"I'm sorry. " he whispers, ignoring the throbbing pain of what will soon be a spectacular bruise "I'm sorry, will you forgive me? "

His spider visibly deflates, becomes smaller, wearier, and almost collapses into his arms. 

"Of course you've forgiven doofus, you'll always be, but don't spout nonsense like that alright?" He lets Sherlock kiss him, worship him, neither wants to struggle tonight and the mark on the detective's face will be the only mark given out of anger that night. 

"Always?" There's a grin against a pale throat, amusement radiating between the two men "Even if I become ordinary? "

James snorts. 

"Oh I'm not saying I won't be angry if you decide to do that, ordinary Sherlock, but I'm sure you'll be able to convince me to forgive and forget..."

"And just how would I do that? "

Moriarty grins, and like any good professor, gives a demonstration. 

The next day they wake up silently, they dress, drink a scorching cup of mediocre tea and then go out, leaving the hotel, _everything,_ behind. 

After almost two hours of walking on the rocky path along the edge, they finally find the perfect location, the closest place to the falls they could reach without getting thoroughly soaked, with a steep precipice and just the right amount of light to make the moment feel almost cosy…

They stand still, immobile, the roar of the water drowning their thoughts as they observe the plunge they will soon take, and then the professor is putting his head on Sherlock's shoulder, his mouth close to his ear. 

"Shall we go over together, my own? It has to be together, doesn't it?" James speaks softly, gently, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the falls "At the end it's always just you and me."

Sherlock smiles sadly, brushing aside a strand of the professor's soaked hair to place a kiss on his temple. 

"Always. "

They hold hands, fingers interlocked, interlaced, melting into every plane but reality's, and then they're jumping, falling, flying, they're plummeting into the icy water and waiting for Death's bony embrace. 

_I don't want to die,_ he thinks, he's swallowed by the falls, consumed by the tumultuous void and his mind is screaming- _again and again,_ because he _doesn't want to die-_

Then there are lips pressed against his own, the taste of ether, and under they go together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all liked this chapter! :D  
> Also, some quick answers if it's confusing...
> 
> Did this Sherlock understand/remember everything about his past life/Jim's immortality?   
> Absolutely not but he never actually asked Jim (he wouldn't have answered anyway) nor really tried to focus on the memories so he just kinda lived while knowing the basics.
> 
> How does Jim's immortality work?   
> He doesn't age and can't die from anything physical but even if everything heals (until he looks the same as he did when the portrait was made), the process isn't faster than for a normal man, hence why Sherlock didn't exactly want him to fling himself off a cliff.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hopefully y'all are not too weirded out!
> 
> Sherlock gets less insane though, promise.


End file.
